Sleep Tonight
by sarramaks
Summary: Case fic centred around a Flack/Angell relationship, hints of Mac/Stella and some DL angst - may turn to romance! FINAL CHAPTER NOW UP. Enjoy. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1 Ups and Downs

_Disclaimer: I do not own CSI:NY or its characters. The plot, however, is my own._

_A/N: Thank you to Lily Moonlight for the read through - and help with that sentence! And to Sonnet Lacewing for the candy!_

Chapter One – Ups and Downs

The body lay awkwardly in the corner of the elevator, its shoulders propped up against the metal wall and its eyes half open, as if taking a final look at its surroundings. Mac looked grim as he studied it. This was not something he needed; a dead body in the precinct would bring Jordan Gates to his office like a bear after honey. He looked behind him where Hammerback and Stella were stood in the same surprised silence that the rest of the station was wearing. It seemed impossible that someone had been able to walk into the building and dump the body of a man, who was by no means small, without being seen.

"Uniform found him about five minutes ago. They called the elevator and found we had a surprise guest," Stella said, her hands on her hips. "No one has any clue how he got in here."

"Well he didn't walk here, that's for sure," Sid said. "He's got the blues. Died lying on his left sideand not on his back." He moved back to the body, almost reverential in the look he gave it.

Mac looked at him, wondering once again how long it would be before he started to see things the way Sid did. "Lividity is present along the left arm and is fixed. So we know he's been dead at least eight hours. Stella, who's on call? The last time I look there were no free detectives; everyone was out or with suspects."

"Flack and Angell," she said. "I've tried calling them but the cell network's down."

Mac rubbed his chin, thinking. "There's no one else?" She shook her head. "What time's Danny due on shift?"

Stella shrugged. "He only went home about two hours ago, and I don't think he was feeling too good."

Mac sighed, nodding. "This bug's taken down half the department already." He crouched by the body, looking at it once more, the sight finally becoming believable. "I'll go get Flack and Angell – I know where they are." Mac looked up, grey eyes focusing on his colleague. "Stella, are you okay to start processing the scene?"

"Sure. I've got one of the uniforms pulling CCTV footage as we speak, so this could end up being cut and dried," she said, raising her eyebrows, a look of irony on her face.

Mac shot her a wry grin. "Let's see," he said. "Nothing's ever that simple round here." He discarded his latex gloves and headed to the door. "I'll be back in ten."

Stella looked at Sid, any comments about Detective Taylor unsaid. Why he knew the whereabouts of two detectives when they were off-shift was anyone's guess, and both she and Sid were beyond trying to work him out. She surveyed the scene, sharp eyes looking for small things that could give some detail to this man's story. Nothing immediately grabbed her. She squatted by the body and inserted gloved fingers into his trouser pockets, pulling out a wallet. She flicked it open. A faculty pass from New York University School of Law looked at her. "Brian Goddard," she said as Sid looked at the ID over her shoulder. "Professor of Legal Ethics. Aged fifty-two."

"Always good to have a name," Sid said, his gaze returning to the deceased form of Brian Goddard.

"It does help," Stella said, looking at the inside wall of the elevator. From the looks of it, the elevator had been recently cleaned; no litter, no greasy fingerprints from cops who had just eaten street food, no signs of any hairs. "Sid," she said. "When do the elevators get cleaned?"

"About eight each evening," he said. "There's a lovely young cleaner named Victoria who I often converse with. She's studying at NYU actually; in fact, she may well know our victim here."

"That means he must have been put here after eight. It also means that we have a greater chance of any fibres or fingerprints being from whoever dumped the body, as everything left previously would have been cleared," she said, finding what she needed in her tool kit and dusting the hand rail for prints. Nothing.

She began to scan the body for fibres or any other bits of trace while Sid stood back. As soon as she determined that there was nothing that would be lost by the removal of the body it could be moved to the morgue for post-mortem. "It's clear, Sid," she said after the passing of a few minutes. "I can't find anything. I hope this doesn't set the precedent for this case."

Sid stood. "There has to be something left somewhere. I'm interested to know what he's holding in his hand."

Stella looked at the hand. She had already noticed it, but hadn't yet given it any thought, doing the job of processing the scene in stages to not miss anything. "Cadaveric spasm," she said. "Suggesting that death occurred at a time of physical or emotional stress. So he would have died in this position."

With gentle hands, Sid moved the body forward, away from the back wall of the elevator. "Gun shot wound to the back of the neck," he said. "Bullet should still be in there as I doubt his clothes have been changed since he was killed – the killer wouldn't have been able to manipulate the body. And this is definitely murder, by the way. There's no way he could have shot himself in that position. Although assisted suicide would be an option."

"So if he'd had these clothes on for at least eight hours why's there no trace on the front of his shirt or trousers?" Stella said, mystified. "It's like someone's vacuumed him." She stood up, taking off her gloves.

"Stranger things have been known," Sid said. "If you're okay to wait here with the body I'll go fetch one of the assistants. I'm surprised we haven't had more of an audience." He looked around, as if expecting a mass crowd to suddenly appear. The only spectator had been the officer who was now checking the cameras for any unusual events caught on film.

"Every where's short staffed," Stella said. "This bug really has taken its toll." She looked up to see Mac returning, Angell and Flack walking behind, both dressed for dinner. "Been somewhere nice?" she said after filling them in on the name of the deceased, noticing that both looked on the darker side of happy.

"We were somewhere nice," Flack said. "A place where there was no Mr Dead staring at me. How _did_ he get in here?"

"Probably through the delivery door in the basement," Angell said. Three pairs of eyes starred at her. "The vending machine company was scheduled to make a delivery this evening. The door would have been opened – and given the fact that nearly everyone is sick I imagine it would have been left unattended while they brought the stock into the elevator."

Stella saw Flack's eyes widen. "How do you know about vending machine delivery dates?" he said, looking intrigued.

"The call to confirm the order came through to me yesterday by mistake," she explained briefly. "I've seen them do the delivery before and there would have been ample time for someone to walk in." She pushed up one of the straps of the dress she was wearing. Clearly the evening had been an important one seeing how both were dressed.

Mac looked away as he heard Sid approach with one of the morgue assistants. "There's no CCTV at that door," he said. "If they ventured no further than the basement we won't get any coverage of them whatsoever. That cut and dried case you mentioned, Stella, just got a lot less so."

No one spoke for a moment as they watched Sid and his assistant begin to place the corpse into a body bag, working in silence as there was no need for speech; the routine practised too many times already. The sound of the zipper as it closed together the two sides of material reverberated around the corridor and into the open elevator. It called finality.

"How soon can you conduct the autopsy?" Mac said. Sid stood back as the morgue assistant pushed the trolley away from the elevators.

"I can do it straight away. I think it takes precedence since it was found here," he said. "Feel free to join me."

Mac gave a wry smile. He had no issues with being present at autopsies, unlike Flack who tended to avoid such events. Even Angell has been present in Sid's morgue more than Flack. "I'll be there shortly," he said, looking at Stella who was wearing a puzzled expression.

"How did whoever dumped the body know that the door would be open at that time?" Stella said, her brow furrowed.

"It was possibly just chance," Flack said. "Though why you'd come anywhere near a police station with a DB is beyond me."

"Maybe we were meant to find it," Stella said, her eyes scanning inside the elevator once again. "But if we were then that would mean someone knew that door would be open."

"Someone could have been informed by the vending company, or by someone who works here," Angell said. "They would have to have been told as the deliveries aren't routine."

Flack looked at her and nodded his agreement. "The machines are stocked roughly every three weeks. When the snickers bars start getting low someone puts in an order. The last time they were restocked was about two and a bit weeks ago - it was the Monday after Jimmy Donahue got shot making an arrest. The vending company forgot to stock up on Grandma's Cookies." Stella's eyes focused on Flack's disgruntled expression momentarily. She wondered if he and Angell had gotten to eat anything before Mac had got them. If not, Angell was probably in for a tough evening.

Stella focused her attentions back on the insides of the elevator. "Mac, I'm going to go over this again. There has to be something here, a hair or a fingerprint."

Mac nodded. "Feel free, Stella. But if you didn't find anything the first time, I doubt there was anything there," he said. "We can hope Sid finds something, as somewhere there is a primary crime scene which we need to discover pretty quickly. Brian Goddard has been dead at least eight hours already. The trail left by his killer is cold already."

Flack inspected the wallet, taking in the details. "If we're not needed here," he said. "I suggest that we head over to the university and find out a little more about our vic. I'll have one of my men see if anyone filed a missing persons report - if any of my men are available."

"Keep me informed of anything your find," Mac said "With a bit of luck it'll be soon. We've too many officers out of action already and if this becomes complicated we could end up with a back log that'll take us till Christmas to sift through." He watched as Stella began to process the scene, her eyes, he knew, would miss nothing. "I'll process the back door and the elevator controls in the basement." She acknowledge his words with a nod, and he left, knowing that there was little chance of any sleep tonight.

_Thank you for reading and please review! _


	2. Chapter 2 A Little Darker

_A/N: This may be fairly long, apologies now! Thank you for all the reviews - you have certainly sped me on to writing the second chapter! When the third will be up, I'm not sure as I have a trip after work tomorrow, taking some of my students to Stockport Air Raid Shelters. It will possibly be Tuesday, muse depending. Part of the chapter is set at New York University of Law. I have no idea what the uni looks like inside as I couldn't find any pictures, so the descriptions were based on Sheffield Uni instead! I've also never been to New York, so I have used some artistic licence there also! I left my 'Forensics for Dummies' book at home, so the first part of this chp may also have several holes in, although I have been researching!_

_If you want to know what Flack and Angell were doing before Mac found them then read my fic 'The Naming'. It is a one shot and bears no relation to the actual case, hence it stands alone._

_Jessica - thank you for the review - here's the quote that lets you know Mac's been informed of the name... it's not dead obvious, but I didn't want to repeat myself! __"Been somewhere nice?" she said after filling them in on the name of the deceased, noticing that both looked on the darker side of happy._

_Morgan - I can't reply directly, but I'd just like to say thank you for all your lovely reviews!_

_Usual disclaimer applies._

Chapter 2 – A Little Darker

The cool calm of the autopsy room soothed only the nerves of those who were accustomed to dealing with the silence of the dead. Cold steel shone under dim lights; pristinely clean surfaces glimmered, the secrets of the dead bared under their stare. Outside noise, when heard, gave a glimpse into the lives left behind. The daily strife and toils lost as soon as the body bags came and laid down in the halfway house between heaven and hell; the final chance to let the world know the stories of the once-alive.

Sid stood, looking at the back and neck of Brian Goddard, a green sheet covering him from the waist down. Some autopsies were quicker than others, and this looked like the hundred metre sprint of them. Sam, the morgue assistant, had helped him weigh the man, then they had turned him over, exposing the gun shot wound to the back of the neck. Goddard's body was awkward; cadaveric spasm made it difficult to manipulate joints and position the corpse so that it was accessible, but Sam was a superb assistant and hadn't needed the instructions a less experienced member of his team would have, knowing exactly what to do. Sometimes Sid thought that he was the assistant.

He manoeuvred the camera over the wound, focusing on the screen to see a close up of where the bullet had entered. He had been shot from mid-range; he could tell by the pattern the bullet had made upon entering, the skin torn enough to tell him that the shooter was probably about six feet away and had fired at a downward angle. Brian Goddard had already been on the floor when he was shot. Sid pushed the camera away and peered at the wound. Something wasn't right.

Sam brought the equipment used to scan bodies and set it up without being asked, his face inquisitive. Sid watched, knowing what he was going to find, and marvelling at it. He disagreed with killing people, most of the time anyway; there were certain people – rapists, paedophiles, people who dealt drugs to children – who he thought should be humanely put down. But he still bore a fascination and admiration for those whom humanity was a far-fetched idea and the intriguing ways in which they could end life, thinking they had gotten away with it. And the murderer of Brian Goddard appeared to be one of those people.

Sid watched as the images came up on the screen; seeing the outlines of organs and veins. He studied the pictures closely as he slowed the scanner around the entry site of the bullet.

"What can you see?" Sam asked.

Sid smiled. He liked the young man's keenness, his enthusiasm for knowledge. "The bullet has been removed," he said, announcing the fact with triumph. "Whoever did this knew that ballistics can be used as evidence, so they removed the evidence. They did quite a good job of it too. Whoever did it did a very good job. Bullets can fragment- they can be very hard to remove depending on the type of gun used. Either the gun and ammunition was chosen carefully so that it would not fragment, or someone has had the dexterity to make sure that every shard was taken out properly." Sid took his scalpel and cut into the skin, making the hole large enough to inspect a little deeper. "I would say it was the latter. The entry into the flesh is smaller in diameter than the wound below the skin, as if someone has tried scooping out the bullet." He turned around to see Mac stood there, listening intently. "I am sure, Detective Taylor," Sid said. "That you are indeed some sort of spectre given the way you sneak up on unsuspecting people."

Mac laughed quietly, more taken with the body than any attempt at making light conversation. "So there's no bullet inside. We're looking for someone with at least a rudimentary knowledge of anatomy?"

Sid nodded, pointing to the screen. "The bullet entered the back of the neck and through the spine at a downward trajectory, resulting in a C2-3 injury…"

"Which would cause instant paralysis," Mac said. "Any injury to the spinal cord at that height would mean paraplegia. A bullet wound would result in immense bleed out."

Sid nodded, pleased with Mac's knowledge. "From looking at the scan and the body ,the bullet did not exit. The fragmentation of the spine suggests that the bullet cut through the spinal cord and into the C2 and C3 vertebrae, but then became lodged in the bone and tissue. Someone, has then very neatly, gone it through the lesion left by the bullet and managed to remove it. There is scratching on the nearby bones," Sid pointed to an area on the screen. "That suggests tweezers were used. See these indents on the bone here."

Mac nodded. "Do you think we'll be able to match the markings in the bones with a particular type of tool?"

Sid shrugged. "I really don't know. One thing, you can be sure that the markings are not caused by the autopsy. If you get someone for this, then I imagine they will be hoping that the marks left will be put down to instruments used at the post-mortem. I would put my life on the person that did this had some medical knowledge. Although I don't think they were well up on ballistics, otherwise they would have made sure the shot was a through and through."

"We can only speculate about the weapon used, but as it didn't exit then it could potentially have been faulty," Mac said. Sid was certain he could hear Mac's brain processing, a whirr of noise, never pausing.

"Maybe our shooter didn't check the weapon first," Sid said, his eyes returning to the screen, leaving speculation for Mac.

"Which suggests that it may not have been that well planned. What else can you tell us about the vic?" Mac said. Sid saw Mac's eyes trail across the bare back of Brian Goddard, and wondered what he read there.

"He was in fairly good condition for his age. There are signs of bruising on his left hand side, and his skull had a slight fracture just above the left temple. This suggests that he hit the floor, and I would say that this was before he was shot as the bullet definitely came from a downward angle. There are no signs of struggle – his fingernails are spotless and his skin has definitely been wiped down with a light disinfectant. I can also tell you that Goddard was a practising homosexual," Sid said. "But there are no signs of any trauma or semen – so no clues there."

"But if he was wiped clean before being brought here," Mac said. "Couldn't any traces have been washed away?"

"Not unless they were very thorough, and physical signs of rape would still be apparent. I say they as it would have taken two people to carry him in and out of any vehicle. Mr Goddard was a heavy man – 225 pounds. He would have been awkward to move," Sid said, taking a rather strange looking piece of equipment out of a drawer.

"The hand," Mac said, gesturing to the closed hand, unwilling to give up its secrets even in death.

Sid nodded, using the instrument to prise open the fingers. He heard a crack of bone and then a finger released its death-grip, a key emerging. Sid's gloved hand passed it into Mac's. "Maybe that will help," he said. "I suppose you would like a clearer time of death?"

"That will help – what've you got?"

"I haven't analysed stomach contents yet, but at the moment I would place TOD between twenty-four and forty-eight hours ago. I'm afraid I can't be any more specific on that, as I don't know where the body has been kept with regard to temperature etcetera. Stomach contents will help, and I'll let you know as soon as I have details of those," Sid said. "It's a strange case – why bring the body of a middle-aged professor here?"

"A good question, Sid. But unfortunately, that's one question Mr Goddard can't answer," Mac said, looking anxious to go, always moving. "Call me if you get any more."

Sid nodded, unclipping his glasses and letting them hang around his neck, his eyes swiftly moving across the body, as if scanning it himself. "What more do you have to tell me?" he said out loud, causing Sam to look over from where he was working. Sid was unaware of his curious look, immersed in seeing what else was left for Brian Goddard to say.

-&-

The night was warm, and the only suit Flack had had in the locker room was one far more suited to winter. He shrugged off the jacket and rolled up his sleeves, hoping that at some point they could stop off at his apartment and he could change. Jess had fared better; linen trousers and a short sleeved shirt had been hanging in her locker from a shopping trip she had never gone on after a case had grown hairy, requiring her to stay past the end of shift.

"I'll drive," Angell said, holding up the car keys to one of the unmarked police cars. "It's parked just outside." He glared at her slightly, hating being a passenger. The smile she returned almost annoyed him even more. "The food was delivered while you were speaking to Mac." Jess pointed over to his desk. "I suggest you grab the dim sums and we eat those while I drive. We can heat the rest up later."

Flack eyed the little packages on his desk and suddenly the world seemed a better place. "We got a positive ID on the vic," he said, quickly picking up the boxes of dim sums and piling them into a bag. "Mac brought Goddard's profile up from the university website and it's definitely him."

"So we head over to Vanderbilt Hall," Angell said, ushering out of the room.

"You're familiar with NYU Law?" Flack said, slightly surprised. He knew New York, of course, but had had little to do with the University of Law and for some reason had assumed that Jess would be as ignorant as him.

"I had a boyfriend who was studying there," she said. "That's why I'm driving – I know where to park."

He shrugged, pulling a box out of the bag and opening it up, finding prawn toast.

The university was like the rest of New York and did not sleep. Vanderbilt Hall contained the auditorium and most of the classrooms, as well as sharing the library with neighbouring Furman Hall, part of which ran underneath Sullivan Street. A large number of the faculty had their offices in the building, which looked stately and imposing, fronted with a grassy area. Lights were switched on in many of the rooms, their dim beam letting the world know that the occupants were awake; whatever amusements they were engaging themselves in. Music could be heard coming from the first floor, the faint beat of a rhythm filtering its way down through the air. Nowhere spoke of an untimely death, and Flack wondered what shocks were about to be delivered.

They made their way up the steps to the reception where a woman of not more then twenty stood, with long dark brown hair drifting past her shoulders and wearing a pair of thick rimmed spectacles.She looked at them, appearing annoyed with the interruption, putting down a thick book which Flack noticed to be about environmental law. Flack flashed her his badge, noticing Angell doing the same thing. "I need to know where I can find the dean of the university," he said. There had been nothing about Goddard's person to suggest he had family, so the next point of contact was his employer.

"Is this a joke?" she said. "Some sort of sorority or frat prank?" She looked at them, regarding them through sharp eyes. "You look too old to be in a society though – and you don't look like NYPD, not dressed like that." Flack felt his evening getting worse.

"We are in charm mode tonight, aren't we?" he held his badge up once more. "We need to know where we can contact the Dean." His voice was firm, taking no prisoners.

The brunette glared at him once more, clearly annoyed at having to put down her book. Flack felt glad that he'd missed college if this was what the girls were like there. "Professor Reyes is currently in a meeting and doesn't want to be disturbed," she said. "Can I take a message and have him get back to you?"

Angell stepped forward and Flack saw her eyes dancing, her lips turned up at the corners in a soft smile. "And you are who? His PA? I'm guessing Professor Reyes doesn't brief whoever's on desk duty of his wants and needs. Cut the crap and tell us where we can find him, otherwise I'll have you in handcuff and how will you explain that to your future employers?"

The girl looked sulkily at them, her bottom lip pushed forwards. Flack figured she had a lust for power that was not easily satiated, and Angell had just stopped her getting her latest fix. "He's in lecture room five on the first floor, and he is in a meeting. I wouldn't know that, but I need to hand in an assignment to someone who's with him. He will be pissed if you interrupt him," she said without expression.

"And he'll be even more pissed when he hears what we've got to tell him, Miss Lebowitz," he saw her badge on the desk next to her book. Clearly she had wanted to be identity free. She smiled, and he wondered if he hadn't credited her with enough smarts; the badge was probably someone else's.

Flack followed Angell as she walked toward the rather grand staircase. He looked about him; a few college kids mulled around, some carrying books, others chatting into cell phones, a few looking tired and stressed. "It's exam time," Angell said. "Although somewhere like this is always exam time. Every year this place gets over seven thousand applicants for less than five hundred places."

"You know, I used to wonder if I missed out by not going to college. I hear Messer talking about it, and Lindsay, and they really seemed to have had a good time," Flack said. "Then I come to places like this and I'm glad I saved my parents the money."

"Why didn't you go?" Jess asked. "Your GPA not high enough?" Her tone was teasing and light. He smiled. He knew he wasn't academic, as in he didn't enjoy studying particularly, but he had always worked hard.

"It was 3.4," he said, enjoying her silence. "What was yours?"

"3.2," she said. "I got a D in French that dropped my average." Their conversation was ceased by the door to lecture room five becoming visible as they turned a corner. No voices could be heard from inside the room, and for a moment Flack wondered if reception girl had fed them the wrong information. If she had, he would have no problem in arresting her.

Angell knocked on the door and pushed it open. Three men and a woman sat around a circular table, clearly used for groups much larger than four. All eight eyes trailed Flack and Angell as they approached.

"NYPD," Flack said, again showing his badge.

"You don't look like it," the woman said, her eyes assessing his attire. He felt releif once more at having avoided institutions such as this one.

"We like to blend in," he said, taking a position where he could see all four faces. Angell stood next to him and he knew that she would be memorising detail. Not much seemed to get passed her, something he'd noticed since they'd been partnered. "Detective Flack and Detective Angell," he gestured, introducing them, needing the names of the four professors, at least he assumed they were professors.

"I'm Professor Richard Reyes, Dean of the University of Law. This is Angela Warrick, Vice Dean; Paul Murphy, Vice Dean and Henry Almedegas, Professor of Law. We are conducting a rather important meeting. I appreciate this must be important, detectives, but would it be possible to reschedule?" Professor Reyes said, his eyes trailing over Angell. Flack raised his eyebrows at him and waited for Reyes to realise he had been caught. The older man showed no embarrassment; instead a slight smugness to the lips appeared.

"I think you would be as well to reschedule this meeting, professors," Flack pulled out the photograph of Brian Goddard in the elevator that Stella had printed for him just before they had left, and placed it down on the table. The eight eyes glued themselves to the image; the pastry-like skin, the eyes half closed and the bluish tinge would steal their way into their dreams.

"Brian," Reyes said, his eyes finally lifting from the photograph. "That's why he hasn't returned my calls." Flack felt sadness pass through the room which was now still. He hated this part, the telling of relatives and friends, but it frequently led to key observations and clues, giving information that would otherwise remain unsaid.

Angela Warrick pulled out a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at her eyes, smearing her mascara. Her sadness seemed genuine. "Was he in hospital? We didn't know he was sick – he kept himself to himself. Even with the students he was professional, a brilliant lecturer, but wouldn't mix with them." Her eyes were red-rimmed and she seemed to be struggling to compose herself.

"He was murdered and his body dumped in an elevator at the precinct," Flack said, not mincing his words. He had noticed that both Murphy and Reyes were looking rather pale, while Almedegas simply looked shocked. "Is there anything you would like to say?"

Reyes shook his head. "I honestly can't think of anyone who would do such a thing. Brian was inoffensive. When did this happen?"

"A post-mortem is being conducted at present – we'll know more after that. All we can say at present is that it was at least eight hours ago. When was the last time any of you saw Goddard?" Flack said. He could see Angell watching the woman closely and he wondered what she had noticed that had tweaked her interest.

"Brian gave a lecture three days ago. It was one of the last of the semester. He had spoken about going to Denver to visit a friend – I assumed it was a boyfriend as he was very excited about – you are aware that Brian was gay?" Reyes waited for Flack's nod, which was given, although it was new information. "He said he anticipated leaving at the weekend as we have several meetings for the rest of the week, all to do with certain elements of the syllabus we teach, particular students and colleagues. Brian had worked here for twenty years and used to be a Vice Dean; his opinion was of importance. I've tried to contact him several times since Tuesday, but he hasn't returned any calls or emails."

"I saw him Tuesday evening in the library," Almedegas said, his voice quiet and sombre. "He was returning some books. We exchanged pleasantries and carried out our business. This time of year is particularly busy. We tend to catch up once the examinations have been marked." Flack nodded, looking at the two other professors for their responses. Neither spoke.

"Did either of you see Goddard after Tuesday evening?" he said. Angela Warrick shook her head, speech now beyond her.

Paul Murphy looked thoughtful, biting his lip before he spoke. "I thought I saw him Wednesday morning at Larry's coffee shop, speaking with a man whom I did not recognise. I was on my way out when I saw him, and as he hadn't seen me and I was in a rush, I didn't make myself known. I can probably describe the man he was with."

"What time would that have been?" Flack said. Something niggled him about Murphy and he couldn't put his finger on it.

"Around nine-thirty. I had a meeting with a student at ten and needed to prepare myself for it. It was a tough meeting as I was giving her an official warning for plagiarism," Murphy said, meeting Flack's eyes as if daring him to contradict or ask for more details.

Flack nodded. He would certainly be checking up Murphy's sighting. "I have no more questions for you at present – just some information we will need. Perhaps Professor Reyes could show us to Brian Goddard's study and inform us for a few details. We will be in touch further," he said. The three professors who weren't needed stood, Paul Murphy putting an arm around Angela Warrick's shoulders and escorting her out of the room, giving a brief nod to Flack and Angell. Almedegas thanked them before leaving, his age apparent in the way he moved, slowly, using a stick to carry some of his weight.

Reyes remained seated, his composure calm. "There isn't much for me to tell you about Brian Goddard, Detectives," he said, looking mainly at Angell. "He worked here a long time, did some excellent research, wrote some outstanding academic pieces and was a superb teacher. His private life was kept private. The trip to Denver was the first clue he had given about having a life outside of work."

"If he said so little about his life outside of the university how did you know he was homosexual?" Flack asked.

Reyes sighed, looking away. "About fifteen years ago, Brian had an affair with a student which turned nasty. The student, Michael Reeves, was failing. He tried to blackmail Brian into passing him somehow, otherwise he would 'out' him. Brian reported the matter to the Dean at the time and the issue was resolved. Brian handled it well."

"Should he have been dating one of his students?" Angell said, pushing an errant lock of hair behind her ear. Flack noticed the movement and for a second became engrossed with it, the evening they had just missed out on flashing before his eyes.

Reyes shook his head. "No, but it is something that happens. My wife is a former student of mine. It certainly isn't encouraged, and there have been times when relationships have been requested to be ended, but as long as no one is abusing their power then people fall for who they fall for, detectives." He gave them a look which made Flack wonder if he and Angell had it written across them that they had been on a date that evening. "I'll show you Brian's study. He kept it immaculately tidy; nothing like mine."

The corridors were long and wide, a handful of students passing them along the way. Reyes' pace was quick, his long legs covering the ground with ease. He took them up two flights of stairs, bringing them onto a narrow corridor, the doors either side of it oak and traditional in style, the way Flack had imagined they would be.

"This is Brian's office," he took a set of keys from his pocket and inserted one into the door. "I have a skeleton key – I haven't used it since I took my position, not for opening someone else's rooms anyhow." His nerves showed as he unlocked it and Flack knew that the realities of his colleague's death were now hitting him.

As the door swung open Flack saw a sea of books floating on the carpet. The desk had been turned over, scattering papers everywhere. Bookshelves had been emptied and drawers pulled open. It was a scene that spoke of utter chaos, or disruption and of violence. A room whose happy memories had been felled with one swing on the axe. Flack pulled out his gun, Angell mirroring his actions and they entered the room, Reyes ordered to stand back. In the corner, near a coffee table, lay a man, his torso stripped naked and a book placed on his abdomen. Angell bent down next to him and checked for a pulse, shaking her head. Flack heard Reyes being sick, managing to make it onto the corridor. The night had just got a little darker.

_Please review!_


	3. Chapter 3 Night Moves

_A/N: Thank you to those people who have reviewed and added me to their favourites! BIG APOLOGIES for the delay in this. I haven't made it home once this week before 8pm, and tiredness has taken its toll. I am hoping to have another chapter up tomorrow and next week the installments should be more frequent. This chapter was quite difficult to write for some reason; I hope it's easier to read!_

Chapter Three – Night Moves

The naked bulb dangled from the ceiling, its bareness illuminating the scene below and highlighting the brutality left behind. The body lay on the floor, its head partially under a coffee table, limbs laying awkwardly, the darkness of clotted blood pooling down a white neck in rivulets. Angell had seen blood before, many times. She had become almost used to seeing dead bodies; her year or so in homicide had ridden her of any nausea she might have felt had she been new to the job. Her daily life meant dealing with death in whatever shape it presented itself. Yet she found herself fixated with this body, her gaze rigid on the place where the eyes had been.

The dim lights of night shone at the window, the calls of the earth's sleep filtering through the glass, reminding them that life, for some, continued. Inside, the room stood still. The starkness of the situation placed the now deceased occupant's furnishings in shadows, the shock of those in the room palpable.

"Mac's on his way," Flack said, having radioed in., the cell network still down "Do you have any idea who this is?" he looked at Reyes who was standing tentatively at the door, turning several shades of pale as he looked upon the lifeless being lay on the floor just a few metres away.

"Taylor Raimo," Reyes said. "He was a post-graduate student here, studying legal ethics – Brian's subject. You think he was alive when…when…"

"When his eyes were removed?" Flack ended for him, his tone lacking harshness even though the words were severe. "I hope for his sake it was after he was dead. The pathologist will know more. Were Raimo and Goddard friends, or was it purely a professional relationship?"

Reyes shook his head. "I have no idea beyond the fact that Brian was his tutor." His eyes were fixed onto the dead man's body and he seemed to be shaking. His mouth remained slightly agape, as if waiting to say something, but the words were lost in the scene in front of him. Reyes remained at the threshold of the room, although Angell knew that he should be escorted away, someone there to help him deal with the shock and note down any useful comments he might have made. On a normal evening, uniform would have been there by now, and she or Flack would have dealt with Reyes appropriately. As it was, they wouldn't leave the scene, not until Mac or Stella got there.

She surveyed the room and its destruction. Someone had clearly wanted to devastate it, without leaving a trail. There was no graffiti, no smearing on the walls, no writing, just mess. Purposely done, and, by the looks of it, done after Raimo had been murdered. Angell knew that Mac would have a fine time going through all of what had been scattered, searching for trace. She looked up at Flack. They hadn't conversed since opening the door to the office and she had worked with him enough to know the thoughts that were running through his mind. He was crouching down by Raimo's chest, looking at the book that had been placed their. "What's the title?" she said, hearing familiar footsteps approach the room.

"The Keeper of Sleep, by J.M. Fitzgerald," he said. "It looks old."

"It is," Mac said, his voice entering the doorway, a camera already in his hand. "Published about sixty years ago."

Flack stood up and gave Mac a curious look, then met Angell's eyes. "Is there anything you don't know?"

"I don't know who did this," Mac said, crouching by the body, leaving his kit to one side as he studied the book, picking it up with gloved hands after taking photographs. "J.M. Fitzgerald was a pseudonym for Mark Burchill, a man who was obsessed with sleep and its proximity to death. His ideas were so far off the wall that no publisher would touch him except one, Lionel Hamilton. Fitzgerald died forty years ago, in suspicious circumstances. His death made him more famous than his actual theories; and the price of his books soared. Very few of his works were published - the early editions like this one are worth thousands." Mac looked up at Flack and Angell. "This isn't a robbery gone wrong. Someone breaking into a college professor's study wouldn't be looking for money or valuables, they'd be looking for books like this one." He flicked through the pages which were pristine, other than the usual markings of time. "You got a name?"

"Taylor Raimo. He was one of Brian Goddard's students. Any idea how long he's been dead, Mac?" Flack said as an officer who had just arrived took Reyes to his own study.

"Rigour's present which means he could have been dead for between eight and thirty six hours. If it's the latter, it puts his death at the same time as Brian Goddard's. Sid will give us a more definite time." He sighed as he surveyed the scene. "This one's going to take a while."

Angell echoed his sigh. It was nearly eleven o'clock. She and Flack should have been in a bar somewhere now, or even back at her place or his, not dealing with a case that had produced two bodies already. "How's the staffing situation?" she said, looking at the older detective.

"Two more officers were going home sick as I left," Mac said, bagging the book. "Hawkes and Lindsay are on their way in. They weren't due in until seven tomorrow morning, but it looks like we'll need them. I imagine we'll be switching between sleep and work so a few days, with no time in between." Angell nodded, watching as he began the procedure of analysing the scene. "There are no signs of forced entry. The window's locked. How was the door when you got here?"

"Locked," she said. "Reyes' key opened it fine."

Mac looked thoughtful and remained silent for a few minutes while examining various objects. He began to look at the items which hadn't been disturbed; the few remaining essays on the desk, the shelf of books, the chair whose cushions remained in place. "I can't see any pattern as to what things have been left undisturbed."

"Mac, look at these," Flack said, holding a glove as he pulled out a stack of papers from a gap at the bottom of one of the bookcases.

Mac took hold of them, his eyes scanning the papers. "These are exam essays from two days ago, but they aren't Goddard's; they belong to a Professor Murphy."

"He was with Professor Reyes when we got here this evening," Angell said, briefly filling him in on the meeting they had interrupted. "He says saw Brian Goddard on Wednesday morning."

"That would fit with Sid's time of death. He places it between twenty-four and forty-eight hours ago. As it's now Friday evening he could well have been seen by Murphy then. But why are Murphy's papers in Goddard's office? The exam was sat on Wednesday – we need to find out what time." Mac went over to the desk where pens had been scattered and paperclips thrown, drawing pins lay upturned like little needles, waiting for the hand that would pick them up.

"I'll be on it first thing in the morning. I doubt the exams office opening hours stretch this late," Flack said. "Any sign of cause of death?"

"Nothing obvious. I can't see any blood which would signify a shooting, and there are no signs of ligature marks or bruising round the neck. The blood we can see is from the removal of the eyes. COD will be up to Sid in the morning," Mac said. He stood up, looking at the body of Taylor Raimo, the life dissolved from him. "Who ID'd the body?"

"Professor Reyes. He looked like he was going to be our third victim when he opened the door," Flack said, his hands in his pockets as if he was trying to stop them from touching things. Angell suspected that he had inclinations to doing a bit of forensics work.

Her brow furrowed as a realisation hit her. Something had been tugging at her thoughts since Reyes had given the body a name. "Why would Reyes know the name of one of Goddard's post-grad students? Goddard's speciality was legal ethics, Reyes' is International Law. I doubt Reyes has had reason to come across Raimo."

"He could have been an undergrad here," Mac said. "As an undergrad you don't specialise. Is there anything on the vic to back-up Reyes' identification?"

"We haven't touched anything, Mac," Flack said. "There's too much here that looks like it could be disturbed."

Mac bent down. Angell watched as he tried to step around the books and papers on the floor. He had been right when he said it was going to take awhile. Everything would have to be combed through and sorted, just in case the smallest shard of evidence lurked there. Generally, a scene such as this would have three CSIs working it; it was possible that this one would have Mac on his own. He took his camera out and began snapping shots of the body before moving some of the papers which encroached on the man's legs. The torso was completely bare except for the book. He found the pocket of Raimo's trousers and reached in it, pulling out a battered wallet, stuffed with receipts and credit cards. "Taylor Raimo," he read out from one of the cards. "Reyes identified him correctly unless this was planted." He looked at his watch. "Hawkes should have been here by now."

"I'll get an address for Raimo's next of kin," Angell said, needing to stretch her legs and wanting some time out of there to try and begin to fit the pieces of the jigsaw together. She left them silently continuing to inspect the room, wishing that the objects inside it could speak. The halls were deathly silent, most members of the faculty who were still present would, by now, have heard about the death of Brian Goddard. Students did not frequent the studies and offices of members of the faculty, only if they needed to seek someone, which was unlikely on a Friday night, although she imagined that was because the professors themselves put a stop to it, rather than the students given the number of them that seemed to be around still, studying, rather than enjoying the night attractions of Greenwich Village.

Miss Lebowitz had been replaced on the desk by another student, clearly trying to earn some extra cash doing the dead shift. The boy behind her was probably around nineteen or twenty, but he looked much younger. He put his book down on seeing Angell approach and gave her a smile. She immediately warmed to him, although his expression waned a little when she flashed her badge.

"I need next of kin details for a student. Where can I get them from?" she said, seeing his nerves grow. She wondered what he had to hide.

"I can get them for you," he said. "It'll only take a moment."

"You have authority to access other students' records?" Angell said, surprised. The students who covered the reception desk out of office hours would be there purely so it was staffed, to take messages and answer general enquiries, they would not have access to records or details.

The boy nodded. "I cover this shift every week, plus Saturdays and Sundays. It's when most accidents occur, so the powers that be thought it wise to allow me to clearance to such information. I only pass it on to people with the relevant authority though; obviously, this being a law college and all, we're careful about such things" he gave her another nervous look. "I'm Peter Andrews, by the way."

"Thank you, Peter," she said without smiling, realising the reason for his nerves. "I need the next of kin details for Taylor Raimo. Can you write them down for me?" He gave her a smile, showing white straight teeth that she imagined had been subjected to braces. The look wouldn't have done much for his credibility. Within a few seconds he had passed her a printed piece of paper containing Raimo's personal details, a photograph and an address and contact information for his mother, who was living in New Jersey, close enough for an officer to be sent to visit her. "You know," Peter said. "If you need any more help, just let me know."

Angell smiled reservedly, not wishing to encourage anything. She just wished Flack had been there to witness the encounter.

-&-

It was past two AM by the time Flack and Angell managed to return back to the precinct to reheat the Chinese food. The city was still not asleep, and in areas was far more awake than what it usually was in the daytime; music blared, lights flashed in glaring neon and people surged in the hunt for a good time like warriors chasing their prey. But Angell only saw the dark spots, the places where shadows lay in wait for their next victim, the areas where tomorrow flesh would lie, spilt by city's bad blood.

"Back on shift in eight hours," Flack said as the microwave in the small staff kitchen went ping. "Our on-call should've ended at midnight." It would have done, had there been someone else to take over from them. As it was, they had spent another hour or so in Raimo's small one roomed apartment, looking through cupboards and taking his computer for Adam to search through in the morning, in the hope that something would emerge to give them a hint of why he had been killed. They had also been present when two uniforms had brought his mother over from New Jersey; Sam having bandaged over Taylor Raimo's eyes in Hammerback's absence. Professor Reyes' identification had been correct; the dead man was indeed her son and she had wept silently while Angell had sat next to her, unable to offer any words of consolation, or explanation, because there were none.

Flack looked at her, his eyes soft and knowing. He sat next to her, passing her a tub of food with a fork. "We wouldn't be human if it didn't get to us, Jess," he said and she wondered how he could read her thoughts. "All we can do is find who did it. You can't let them haunt you."

She smiled at him tiredly, knowing that every detective had gone through this point, including her father and the two brothers who had become detectives before her. "It seems senseless," she said, twisting noodles round her folk, the smell mouth-watering.

"They always do. But somewhere there's a reason, and that reason leads to the person who did it," he gave her a concerned look, letting his fork rest in the tray. "Telling parents or partners is always the hardest thing. The look on their face and their cries turn up in your dreams. But it's also what you see when you arrest the bastard that did it and then you remember why you do the job."

His eyes told stories and she remembered Aiden Burns, the CSI who had been killed by the man she was desperate to convict. Perspective and the ability to draw a line between work and home were needed, that she knew. Was taking Flack home with her crossing that line? She wasn't sure.

Flack passed her another tray and she realised she had finished the first. "Maybe next time we'll get to eat these actually in a restaurant," she said, needing to change the subject.

"They'll be a next time?" he said, his blue eyes dancing.

She smiled, knowing she looked goofy, a small laugh escaping. This sea of darkness wasn't so bad to swim in with Flack for a life-raft. She smiled at the analogy and he looked puzzled. "Let's make it an evening when neither of us are on call."

He nodded; his mouth too full to reply.

-&-

There were some points during her work when Stella would have no idea whether it was day or night. For her, work was all-encompassing, and unless a natural break occurred in what she was doing she was likely to continue through meals, breaks and sleep. She checked her watch. Two forty-five. Six and a half hours had passed since the body of Brian Goddard had been found. She stood up from the crouch she had been in and stretched. The lab was silent; those who usually worked the night shifts had been called in at other times to cover for those who were sick. They were operating on a skeleton staff, and if the virus continued to spread, that skeleton could end up being short of a few bones.

She switched off the microscope she had been using to no avail and prepared to leave to grab some sleep, and something to eat. Six hours and she would be back, helping Mac go through Goddard's study. She looked to Mac's office and noticed a dim light glowing from there. He was still in work, a fact she didn't find surprising.

Her footsteps didn't disturb him as she approached his hideaway. Through the glass she could see his eyes focused on papers, reading intently. She pushed open the door and he looked up, a cold cup of coffee next to him, still full.

"You intending to go home tonight?" she said, raising an eyebrow.

He shrugged, a wry smile turning up the corners of his mouth. "There's so much to go through. If we have another big case in the next few days we're going to have to draft in officers from other areas. I can't go home when there's this to go through." He held up a wedge of papers, all filled with neat writing, clearly photocopied.

"You have to sleep at some point," she said. "Which is where I'm off to now. I'll be back in another six hours." She paused, the intrigue of the case and love of the job too much. "Found anything interesting?"

"Flack found papers from one of Professor Murphy's examinations on Wednesday. I've dusted them, and found prints on the first and last ones which match Taylor Raimo. I'm assuming Raimo was bringing them to Goddard to read through. Raimo acted as an invigilator in undergrad exams to earn some extra cash," Mac said. "We found an uncashed check in his apartment from NYU along with a letter confirming more dates for him to work. He also worked nights on the reception desk during the week."

"Was Raimo taking Murphy's papers to Goddard to be second graded? Teachers and professors often moderate results by marking the same papers separately," Stella said. It was the obvious reason, but from Mac's intense curiosity she doubted it would be the answer.

"It was a freshman year paper. They are usually marked by the course convenor, in this case Murphy, and aren't second marked. I think that Goddard suspected the papers wouldn't be fairly assessed so asked his student to copy them before they were delivered to Murphy. From all accounts, Taylor Raimo was well thought of and reliable. One of his responsibilities was to pass on papers to the relevant tutor," Mac said. "Flack and Angell managed to speak to a couple of students before Raimo's mother arrived; the reports were that there was no love lost between Murphy and Goddard."

"This _could_ be cut and dried then," Stella said. "We have a motive for both murders; Murphy, so far, is the last one to have seen Goddard alive. It sounds as if we're getting closer."

Mac nodded. "It does in principal. But we have no evidence to support any of that. So far I have found no weapon or anything that I can say suggests it was Paul Murphy. Plus two people would have been needed to carry Goddard any more than a couple of metres," Mac sighed. "I have a bad feeling about this, Stella."

She looked at him with concern. Mac looked tired and agitated. "We need to keep looking at this logically. Keep with the evidence," Stella said, knowing that her words would be futile given what she was about to tell him. She sighed. "I've found nothing in or around the elevator. It's as if Goddard was put there by a ghost."

"Have you had time to go over Goddard's clothing?" Mac said, his eyes looked worried.

Stella nodded. "I think it's been brushed down to remove hairs and any trace. That, along with the bullet removal, makes me suspect that this was done by someone with good forensic knowledge. The only marks on the clothing were from the blood. Was there any sign in Goddard's office of it being the primary crime scene?"

"No. Even under the UV lamp the only blood that came up was consistent with the splatter from the removal of Raimo's eyes, which haven't been located," Mac said. "That's another reason I can't think that this is solely to do with unfair marking. Why remove his eyes? Why leave a book by J.M. Fitzgerald on Raimo's bare chest? It doesn't fit," he said, looking again at the papers before placing them down on his desk, she knew that he wanted silence, to be alone with his thoughts and she understood that, although sometimes she wished he would allow her in more. But the line created by work separated them and it was one that neither would breach first. "You should get home, Stella. Tomorrow's promising to be a long day."

She nodded, knowing that his advice was pertinent to him also, but there was no point reiterating it. The questions they had would remain until at least the morning and probably longer. "I'll see you in a few hours," she said, leaving him to pick up the next lot of papers recovered from the floor of a dead man's room.

_Please review and tell me how this was!_


	4. Chapter 4 As Phoebe Wanes

_Thank you to those who reviewed the last chapter - your comment are appreciated! If you haven't reviewed, you can always go back and do so :smiles:_

_Usual disclaimer applies. I would also like to add that none of the original characters in this fic bare any relation whatsoever to anyone living or dead. I have done some research on NYU, but a lot of what I've written has been done so using poetic licence! I imagine that everyone there is very nice and lovely!_

Chapter 4 – As Phoebe Wanes

The eyes of the world awoke when dawn came, the time for sleep broken and discarded. The sun's rays began to creep around the buildings she could see from the window, soft yellows kissing the bricks as the trails of night drifted away like gentle phantoms. The city stilled; the night revellers had gone home to sleep, while those who had given their night to the dream king were only awakening. Only she was there to see it all, to watch while sleep dissolved. A soft breeze peeked around the open window, blowing the new warmth of day back into the room. She looked at the desk, covered with the papers she had been reading, the papers that made her head reel with information and facts and inconsequential words. She tried to not let the anger spread into her veins, knowing that she would only become more agitated. Breathing deeply, she opened the window as wide as possible, looking out into the city, seeing the greenery of the park nearby and hearing the voices from down below as the breeze carried them up. She turned from them, her eyes falling on the tome that sat on the pristine bed, its white sheets undisturbed. She stepped to it, caressing the pages, its words etched on her mind. She smiled, the scent of the pages taking preference over the smells of the cafés below as they began to cook a breakfast for the day, for those who were servants to sleep.

-&-

Stella cursed as her concealer ran out; throwing it into the trash with a precision Danny would have been proud of. Lack of sleep hung about her eyes, which felt as dry as a desert before the monsoon. She rummaged in her purse for the drops used to revive tired eyes and cursed as she found that they too were empty. Sleep had not been her friend, spending most of the remaining hours of darkness tossing and turning, replaying over the facts of the case so far. She'd been back at the lab before the first rays of sun had glimmered over the city, finding Mac running some form of experiment which involved several test tubes and chemicals and looked far too complex for someone who had spent the night awake. He hadn't questioned her early appearance, understanding the reasons for it all too well.

The door to the restroom opened and Angell entered. "Don's just gotten here now with Professor Murphy," she said.

Stella's ears pricked at the use of the Detective's first name, but she let it go. At some point someone would enlighten her as to what was going on between the pair, but until then, she was content that her suspicions were correct. She threw the rest of her make up into her purse and looked at the younger detective through the mirror. Angell looked as if she'd had even less sleep. "You manage to get some rest last night?" she said.

Angell shook her head. "My mind kept racing."

"Some cases are like that. You'll find ways to deal with it," Stella said. "How's Flack?" She watched Angell's face for her reaction but the detective remained cool.

"Not amused. The car refused to start this morning and Flack is not the best of mechanics. His temper wasn't improved when I managed to fix it," Angell said, her face brightening as she told the story, clearly pleased at its outcome.

Stella looked knowingly at her, refraining from saying anything. A day like this had little time to spare on frivolities. "Where's Flack taking him?"

"Room seven," Angell said, opening the door to leave. "Murphy seems to be more responsive to female questioning than male, so it's down to us." She paused, her silence full of thought. "You think this is going to take us anywhere?"

Stella shrugged. "I don't think it's easily discountable. He's the last person we have who saw Goddard, copies of his exam papers were found in Goddard's study along with another body. We have to speak with him anyway. Whether he's the killer, we have no conclusive evidence – in fact we have no evidence."

They had so far found nothing other than what was to be expected from every day visitations of students. The door handle had no fingerprints on it and it seemed clear that whoever had committed the crime had worn gloves. It had been pre-emptied, planned. Someone knew that Taylor Raimo would be inside the study.

"Where do we start with him?" Stella said, looking at Angell as they walked toward room seven. "The papers or the sighting?"

"The sighting," Angell said. "Sid's given us a more accurate time of death after analysing the stomach contents. He puts it around Wednesday late afternoon or evening. Don's got some of his men at Vanderbilt now asking around if anyone saw Goddard after breakfast on Wednesday. He says he'll call if he gets anything."

Stella nodded. "Is he aware of the papers that were found?"

"Nothing's been said about them. I want to know if there's been any bad feeling between Murphy and Goddard before we tell him about the papers, he could easily incriminate himself if he denies it. However, I don't like him for this. If it was him, why leave the papers?" Angell said, her tone quick and sharp. Stella could tell she wanted this case to be finished and done with in a way that was unlike her. Stella didn't know Angell that well, but what did know was that she was thorough and tough, something about this one had reached under her skin and stayed there.

"He may well have information that could be pertinent to the case," Stella said. "And we have to cover all angles."

"And if there's the slightest chance that Murphy's responsible…" she left the rest of the sentence unsaid as Flack approached them in the corridor leading to the interview room. Stella saw Angell's face lighten slightly, the shadows that had fallen across her disappeared.

"You okay?" Flack said. They nodded. "Murphy's in there. He's not happy about being brought down here to be interviewed rather than at the college, says this makes it seem like he's a suspect."

"Somebody may have something to hide," Stella said as they reached the door. Flack gestured for her to enter; she unlocked it and went through, seeing a man in his forties dressed smartly in a suit looking at her with disdain in his eyes.

"There was no need to lock the door," he said. "I am certainly above 'making a run for it' as you clearly suspected."

Angell sat down on a chair in front of him, the desk between them and looked at him for a second before answering. "The door was locked out of habit, Professor Murphy and I apologise for that. We just need to ask you a few questions with regard to the murders of Brian Goddard and Taylor Raimo. Then you can go back to your work. You remember I'm Detective Angell, and this is Detective Bonasera."

Murphy glared at them, his eyes grey and cold, like stone. Stella remained standing, keeping more of a distance, wanting to observe. A teacher friend of hers had once said that she learnt more about the children she taught by being able to sit back and watch them than reading and marking their work. It had been a useful observation.

"You said last night that you saw Goddard in Larry's coffee shop with a man you didn't recognise. What was Goddard's demeanour? Was he agitated, for example?" Angell said. Stella smiled at her phrasing of the question; factual. She was going purely for information rather than opinion. This would put Murphy at ease.

"I can't even be certain that it was Goddard I saw as I didn't get a close enough look at him. I couldn't swear to it in court," Murphy said with an impatient sigh, his eyes moving to the wall where a poster about dropping litter had been placed.

"Was Larry's café a place he normally frequented – had you seen him there before?" Angell said, her tone unresponsive to Murphy's mood.

Murphy's eyes came back to her as he nodded. "He would often do tutorials in there, preferring to meet with some students in public rather than in his study. It was also where he breakfasted most mornings before lectures."

"So there's a good chance that it was Goddard you saw?" Angell said. Murphy nodded. "Who was he with?"

"A man I hadn't seen before," Murphy said. "I told you all of this last night!"

Angell nodded. "We need as much detail as you can remember. What did the man look like?"

"He was in his thirties, had brown short hair and wore glasses. He was very thin – I didn't pay too much attention as I don't think it necessary to make a mental note of everyone I see!" he glared at them before looking at the poster again. Stella noted his lack of eye contact. The poster wasn't there to pass on a message.

"Can you recall how they were acting around each other?" Angell said, her voice calming and soft, almost as if she was dealing with an angry child.

Murphy shrugged, his eyes fixed on the poster. "Normal, I guess."

Angell let the silence hang for a moment, a small smile playing on her lips. "Professor Murphy, you've been a practising lawyer for a very long time. One thing you are skilled at is reading body language and responding to it. I expect a bit more from than 'normal, I guess'. Can you please elaborate," her voice was now forceful and Stella could see Murphy becoming immediately agitated.

"Like I said before, detectives, I don't expect to have to take notes every time I see someone. I suppose there was a bit of tension between them as they walked out; they were clearly in each other's company, but weren't keeping the same pace. That was all I noticed," he said. "I really need to get back to my work."

Angell smiled at the professor, and Stella saw the corners of his lips turn upwards for a moment. She was pretty sure that Flack would not have had the same reaction from him had been him smiling. "Before you go, Professor, can you tell me why you have just lied?" her tone was unmistakeable; sickly sweet and full of promise. Murphy looked as if a bowling ball had just hit him on the head.

"I haven't lied…" he began, and then thought better of it. After a few seconds of thoughts visibly running through his head he began to speak once more, choosing his words carefully. "The man I described – who Brian was with – I described him incorrectly. He was older, in his fifties, with brown hair, slightly greying at the sides. He was very slim with broad shoulders that made him look bigger than he was. He wore glasses. That's it. That's the truth."

"Why lie?" The question was short and to the point. "Is it someone you recognised?"

Murphy shrugged, his eyes on the poster again. "I thought I recognised him. But it's been over ten years. It could have been David Rostow," he sighed, knowing he was going to have to give up information he wanted to keep hold of. "I hate saying that, because if it wasn't him, I've sent you after an innocent man. Rostow was an academic here. He never reached professor status, much to his chagrin. His was a specialist in Holocaust litigation and very knowledgeable on his subject. He was fired for being inappropriate with a pupil and using his status to stop her from failing. It was Goddard who caught him out."

Angell nodded, looking satisfied. "How long is it since you have seen David Rostow?"

"Not since he was escorted off the premises. I heard he had moved to England," Murphy stood up to go.

"Thank you, Professor. However," Angell said. He sat down abruptly. "We have a few more questions. Let's see if we can have the truth the first time round. How was your relationship with Brian Goddard?"

"We didn't get on. It was a conflict of personalities. I didn't like him, he agitated me. I thought he was a buffoon. And you will find this out shortly, so I may as well tell you now. Brian beat me to the post of Vice Dean several years ago. I think it was fair to say that I felt murderous about it. However, when he stepped down from the post, he recommended me for it. The murderous feelings ceased and I made an effort to get along with him. He was a brilliant lecturer, I'll give him that."

Stella stepped forward, coming out of the shadows in the room in to the patch of light, lit by the windows. "Can you tell us why photocopies of an exam that was sat on Wednesday by your first year students were found in Goddard's study?"

Professor Murphy smiled broadly, his eyes lighting. "If you go in my study you'll find Goddard's students' papers," he said. "Brian and I have been marking each other's exams for years, ever since he had that problem with a student. We photocopy the papers and pass them onto each other, then copy the grade out onto the actual paper so the student gets a more personal response. I have no reason to kill Brian Goddard, detectives. If that answers all of your questions am I now able to go and speak with my students?"

He stood. Angell remained seated and Stella stayed in her position while he exited the room. "You think we got the whole truth from him?" Angell said once the door had closed and Murphy's footsteps had disappeared.

"And nothing but the truth? No. I don't think he's lied, but I think he knows more than he's letting on," Stella said. "We've nothing on him, though. Unless something comes from Raimo's autopsy."

Angell stood up and walked to the door, pausing before she opened it. "I have the horrible feeling that Sid's going to have more work to do before we've caught this killer," she said, shadows from the corridor darkening her face.

Stella watched the door close before heading to where Murphy had been sat. She couldn't help but agree with Angell. This case had the markings of a tough one already; it had been cold before they had even received the first body. She bent down, her eyes scanning the table. Professor Murphy had a habit of playing with his hair, she'd noticed. At least one would have fallen out, and that one hair could eventually be all they needed.

-&-

Sid looked out of a window on his way up to the lab, noticing the weather. The warmth of yesterday had been stolen, leaving a grey, overcast day, a day of shadows. Blue skies had been replaced with something that looked like it wasn't a colour, just a blend of shades that had been washed wrong. He had taken the stairs, wanting the exercise, feeling the need to stretch his legs. Like a lot of the people present in the building he'd come in before his shift had been due to start, knowing that it would be all hands on deck until more people were well. He reached the lab, his shadow still following him. It was quieter than usual, the noises of experiments that gave the dead their voice were silent and instead a hush ruled. He scanned in and pushed the door that led into the wide open space with scattered worktops. White ruled in here, the lab coats were uniform, each day washed, the stench of chemicals and death rinsed off, only for it to be reapplied the next day, such was their cycle of life.

Mac was at his workstation, the book in front of him. He was scanning down each page, Sid could tell, looking for any notes or circlings. His furrowed brow showed that none had been found. Grey clouds hung at the wide windows, promising more dullness, the sun barely able to shrug off her duvet.

"I've done the autopsy on Taylor Raimo," Sid said, Mac jumping at his words.

"I guess I'm not the only spectre in this building," Mac said, turning around, one hand still on the book. "You should have called, Sid. I would have come down."

Sid shook his head. "I need more exercise than just making Y-incisions," he said, waving the photocopied notes in his hand. He also wanted to see what Mac had under his spotlight. "The results are interesting."

Mac sat down on the stool at his workstation and beckoned for Sid to take the other. "Any luck with COD?"

Sid nodded. "Plenty, and with more to come as soon as I get the results from tox. Cause of death is interesting. The victim appears to have been injected several times with an unknown substance that rendered him unconscious. This wouldn't have been immediate as there are no signs of bruising to suggest he fell in any way and no signs of one of the usual toxins. He wasn't killed by it though. Actual COD is asphyxiation, probably by smothering." He looked at Mac, noting the calmness of his features. He didn't panic, just took everything as it came. Reasoned. Sid wondered if he was too reasoned. Sometimes a little chaos did one good.

Mac's eyes were puzzled. "Then how come there are no obvious signs? There was no discoloration, no cyanosis or petechiae," he said. "There was nothing present last night to suggest suffocation."

Sid smiled knowingly. He had often thought that Mac was a pathologist trapped in a sensible person's body. "Time of death was around seven yesterday evening. Rigour had only just set in when the body was discovered and because of the chemicals present in the bloodstream, normal signs of asphyxiation were not present. I suspect that Tox will show that what was injected was a sedative."

"Which will have slowed down respiration and blood pressure – and if a large quantity was taken any outward signs of asphyxiation would be minimal," Mac said, clearly pleased that he hadn't missed something crucial. Mac was oblivious to any movement in the rest of the lab; vision tunnelled onto the body that lay downstairs and the tale it had to tell.

"There were some discoloration and petechiae to the feet and hands, but they would have been mistaken for bruising quite easily. If the eyes had been present, it would possibly have been obvious as the blood vessels in them would have been broken by the intravascular pressure," Sid said. "Whoever committed this murder knew what they were doing. Had the victim been conscious he would have struggled and been in immense pain when the eyes were removed. His screams would have drawn attention and he would have had defence wounds on his hands." He looked at Mac as he processed this information, his mind ticking it over, analysing it.

"You said there were multiple injection sites. He was kept alive but unconscious for sometime?" Mac said. Sid smiled. He had known this would be his next question.

"The first injection was given around forty eight hours before time of death. Raimo was kept in an unconscious state for approximately two days – the healing of the injection sites shows this quite clearly. Again, whoever did this knew what they were doing. They have issued enough of a sedative to render him incapable of anything but sleep without causing any sickness or fatal side effects," Sid said, noticing Stella pass by in a blur as she rushed to catch someone with what seemed like important information. "I had Sam bring up Raimo's clothes for trace. I see Danny's not in – another victim of the bug?"

Mac nodded. "He's too sick to get in. Hawkes is covering and is almost on his twelfth hour. I've told him to go home to grab a few hours of sleep, but he argues he did much longer as a doctor. Lindsay's just gone home for a few hours and then she's coming back. Kendall's down with it, and I'm pretty sure Adam's not feeling too hot, but isn't saying anything. How did someone stab Raimo with a needle to start with? Any chance it could have been self-inflicted?"

Sid shook his head. "It was in his back, near the left shoulder." He stood up. The shadows were still there, weak in the lack of bright light. "Have you read The Keeper of Sleep?" He knew, of course, that the book had been found on the victim's body.

Mac's eyes were drawn back to the book. "I haven't. It never caught my interest. The death of the author, J.M. Fitzgerald, was a case a studied back in college. Even now, there's no conclusion as to how he was killed, or even if he was killed. Forensically, there was no evidence left. No trace, no forced entry. Nothing. Rather like what we have with Taylor Raimo."

"You know the cause of death for Fitzgerald?" Sid said. It had also been a case he had studied and one he had taken quite an interest in due to the lack of evidence and also the incompetence of the examiner who carried out the initial autopsy.

Mac looked at him curiously. "There was never one ascertained."

"Not one that was ever made public. A friend of mine I was on a conference with a few years back told me in confidence that a second autopsy was carried out several months after the first," he looked at Mac's expression which was full of interest. "The body was never released as there was no next of kin, only a few strange followers who claimed that Fitzgerald's death was falsified and that he was actually only 'asleep'. A second autopsy showed that he had overdosed on chloral hydrate, not an extreme conclusion to come to in the first place given that several bottles of it were found at his home. Toxicology was in its infancy then, but enough was known to detect it in Fitzgerald's bloodstream," Sid said, knowing that Mac thought he was wandering off on a tangent. "The results were kept secret. Why, I don't know. There were rumours, or so my source told me, that Fitzgerald was carrying out an experiment for a drug company which was financed by the government and they didn't want it leaking out."

"Conspiracy theories," Mac said with a smile. "You friend suggest whether it was accident or murder?"

"No conclusions were drawn," Sid said. "The death of Fitzgerald and the death of Raimo have some similarities. The fact that you've found one of Fitzgerald's books suggests to me that the two are in some way related."

"You think tox will show Raimo was injected with chloral hydrate," Mac's tone was almost accusatory. "That's why you didn't call me downstairs, you wanted to see the book." He held the blue jacketed object up in his hand.

Sid smiled. "I suspect it will be chloral hydrate, yes. But only tox will confirm it. And the book is a work of art."

"Have you read it?" Mac said, referring to the book still in his hand.

"A long time ago. I think most coroners have, if only to mock its ideas," Sid said, his pager vibrating inside his pocket. "That should be tox." He pulled it out and looked at the screen, smiling at Mac. "Positive for chloral hydrate." He pointed to the book. "I guess you'll have to read it, Mac."

_Please review - accept anonymous reviews and welcome all comments!_


	5. Chapter 5 The Daylight Bleeds

_Apologies for the delay in updating. Hopefully I'll get more frequent this week. Thank you too all of those who have reviewed or put me on alert – you keep me motivated to write!_

_For those of you who are reading this as a case fic rather than Flack/Angell, this story is preceded by several on shots charting their relationship. You don't have to have read them, but they explain why Flack and Angell are where they are with regards to each other. _

_Thank you to Lily Moonlight for the read through._

Chapter 5 – The Daylight Bleeds 

Darkness hung around quiet corners, false lights protecting the eyes from sleep. Even in the middle of the day, night time could be found; whether in the shadows or in the recesses of minds. The bar was quiet, although within the hour it would be flooded with students, celebrating the end of term and the final exam. She looked over to the table where Maxwell was standing; tall, chiselled and eyes of darkness. He looked as if he was the night personified, darkness spilling out of him. That was one of the reasons he had been chosen, one of the many reasons.

She stayed in the shadows, watching as he became impatient. Maxwell wasn't used to being kept waiting. Maxwell Wilson III was used to having everything _his_ way and she was very much enjoying showing him otherwise. She would wait, until he looked about to leave and then bounce into the light, her blonde hair seemingly tousled by daytime's gentle breeze, her skin sun-kissed and her smile the bait. She had been well selected.

He drank the last of his drink; a clear liquid she supposed was a vodka martini. Personally, it was too early for her, but then she had never been one with money to spend on drinks before night.

He was becoming impatient, his eyes cold, the depth of them endless, looking nervously at the door. He glanced at his watch before slamming the empty glass on the table and she made her way round in the shadows to the door, waiting for him to turn away to give the appearance of having just arrived.

When he saw her, he smiled, the stone in his eyes turning to sand. She smiled back, apologising profusely, blaming transport and he kissed her cheek. She was winning. Another one would soon be theirs.

-&-

Flack pulled open a drawer and rummaged through its contents. Nothing except unwritten envelops, postage stamps and stationary. "Did this man have a life?" he said to Hawkes who was the other side of the room, looking in an old-fashioned, and probably antique, bureau.

"It seems not. This doesn't feel real somehow. It's as if all of this has just been put here for show to make the place seem used," Hawkes said, turning round and looking at Flack. "We've been here an hour and haven't found anything recent, there's nothing to suggest that Goddard was actually living in this place before he died."

Flack closed the drawer and stood in the middle of the lounge. Goddard's apartment in D'Agostino hall should have produced a mine of productivity. So far, what they actually knew about the man could be written on the back of a postcard. He was an enigma. "We've got no bills, no documentation of any kind, no personal correspondence. We haven't even found his cell phone and everyone has a cell phone."

Hawkes nodded. "But we have enough evidence to suggest he lived here: the sheets have been slept in, there's a change of bed linen, his work's here," he gestured to a pile of marked assignments on a shelf. "This place was used even though it doesn't seem like it."

Pulled open another drawer, the only one he hadn't yet checked in. He felt frustrated and stagnant. Usually a victim's home gave them leads as to who would want to kill them, unless it was entirely random. This case was not random in the slightest, but so far, there were no clues. The drawer was empty. "You think someone's been in here and taken all of his personal information? We haven't even found a passport, and the guy lectured at Oxford University in March."

"Maybe he has another place," Hawkes said. "This is his only residence listed on the college database, or where his driver's licence is registered, but that doesn't mean he hasn't got another property."

Flack looked around the living room. It was small; just big enough for two two-seater sofas, a desk and a bureau. The double bedroom came off it, containing a queen sized bed, wardrobe and set of drawers. The wardrobe and drawers were filled with clothes for every occasion. A small kitchen fed off the hallway, as did a bathroom with a shower cubicle, rather than a bath. "Clair Raynes who let us in said that Goddard was offered a bigger place but turned it down. She said that most of the faculty only use these rooms as a place to stay if it's more convenient to be here for lectures or meetings and that most have places elsewhere, except Goddard. He could always be found here." Flack closed the drawer having been watching it as if expecting something to appear.

Hawkes was crouched down by his kit, pulling out more fingerprint tape. "There are fingerprints of people other than Goddard in here," he said. "That could give us a lead. Once I'm back at the lab I'll run them through AFIS. I can't see these rooms as being the height of social interaction. Whoever Goddard brought back here must have been important. Anything to do with his work he would have done through his office."

"There's nothing to say he let them in. Any signs of this being the primary crime scene?" Flack said, knowing he was being hopeful.

Hawkes shook his head. "No evidence of blood anywhere, I'm afraid. I heard back from Mac a while ago that Goddard's study contained no traces of Goddard's blood, just Taylor Raimo's."

"I think we should head over to Raimo's place and see what Lindsay's coming up with," Flack said. She'd been sent over there at the start of her shift, one of his men accompanying her. Today had been the worse day yet for sickness, with over 65 percent of officers down with the bug, including Danny and Kendall, but he hadn't felt as if he could send Lindsay off on her own. Raimo's apartment had already been search briefly but the thorough detail had been left for daylight, not that there was much of that.

Hawkes looked up. "I'm pretty much done here. I should probably get this evidence back to the lab and start processing it. You heard anything from Stella or Angell yet how they went on with Murphy's interview?"

"Yes, they have a name for the guy Murphy saw in the café with Goddard – a David Rostow. He was fired from the college for messing with a student and fixing her results. The name tallies with what one of the waitresses in the café said. Murphy also admitted he and Goddard didn't get along, but had an agreement to mark each others papers. Turns out both had been accused at some point of upping grades of their favoured students and this was a way to cover their backs," Flack said, making his way toward the door, Hawkes behind him, evidence in one hand, kit in the other.

They were parked in separate cars just outside the hall, the first drops of rain beginning to tap down on the cars, large splashes of cool water. Hawkes quickly jumped into his, slamming shut the door and popping open the boot. Flack put the evidence and Hawkes' kit inside it slamming it shut. He looked up to see two people watching his movements, curiosity on their faces.

"I heard Professor Goddard was dead, is it true?" the girl asked, blonde hair pulled back from her face. Her arm was linked through her companions, a man of about twenty, his eyes dark and brooding and his face oddly familiar.

Flack nodded. "You knew him?"

"He was my tutor in freshman year," the girl said. "Nice guy. It's a shame – there aren't many professors you can trust here."

The boy looked angsty and eager to move on. Flack thought about asking the girl more questions but decided not to. The rain had started to come down harder.

-&-

Lindsay was on her own when he reached Raimo's apartment, something Flack hadn't expected. He had specifically ordered Tomas Mare to stay with her until she had finished.

"Where's Mare?" he said as he opened the door and entered a place that could be described as a room rather than an apartment.

"I told him to leave. I know how many officers are sick so I thought it was pointless him being here. Has he not contacted you?" she said, sealing an evidence bag.

Flack felt his insides boil. "No," he said sharply, hands in pockets.

She looked up at him. "I've worked crime scenes on my own before. This one's no different apart from it isn't even a crime scene."

"Lindsay, if I ask one of my men to stay somewhere, there's a reason for it. It doesn't matter if I only have one officer well – if he's told to do something, he does it. And I know for a fact that Mare will now be in the nearest bar, drowning his sorrows after his wife left him last week," he tried to let the words wash away his annoyance. "What've you found?"

Lindsay shook her head. "Nothing that looks useful. Research papers, text books, the odd magazine – nothing I wouldn't expect to see in a student hovel. Sheets haven't been changed for sometime. There are semen stains on them and God knows what else, tomato ketchup I think."

"Maybe he liked a little breakfast in bed," Flack said. "Any sign of friends or girlfriend?"

"Judging by the porn collection, I'd say it was more likely to be boyfriend. Goddard was gay, wasn't he?" she said, pointing to a pile of magazines in the corner next to the bed. "Maybe that's another connection between them. I've found no sign of another person being here, Flack. The mess kind of tells me that Raimo was a loner. If you were bringing someone back here, you wouldn't have a mouldy sandwich under your bed, would you?"

Flack shook his head, remembering the first time there had been the possibility of Angell coming back to his apartment, just as a friend at that point. He had spent at least two hours cleaning. "So this looks like another dead end," he said, the feeling of frustration kicking harder.

Lindsay stood up. "I'm just about done. I guess I'll get this back to the lab and see if there's anything that looks worth analysing."

Flack nodded. "I'm going to go do a little talking. Someone, somewhere must know something more about these people." He left her too it, figuring that like she said, she'd be okay on her own.

-£-

Mac sat back in his chair, his desk clearer than his conscience. He had no idea what he was trying to make amends for, some days he wondered whether he'd done something terrible in a former life, some days he wondered if it was because of his military training, and other days he didn't try to analyse it.

He looked at the book, sitting facing him on his desk, its blue jacket slightly frayed and worn. Sid had piqued his curiosity regarding it, and seeing as nothing else was giving them any clues, he figured he wouldn't be wasting anything by reading at least a few parts of it. Besides, the coincidence with both Fitzgerald and Raimo having chloral hydrate in their systems at point of death was too much to be taken lightly. This book was significant.

He reread the title – _The Keeper of Sleep_. In his mind that could only refer to one thing, Hypnos, the Greek God of sleep, the Roman equivalent Somnus. The book was written in 1965, and seeing as most information about sleep had only been discovered in the last twenty five years he expected the text to be mainly ramblings taken from Greek mythology and to a certain extent he was right. He opened the book at a random page and began to read, wanting to get a flavour for the style of writing and the contents.

…_Sleep and death are both sons of the night, the time when daemons lurk in seek of our souls. Sleep offers us glimpses into the darkness of death, tempting us with dreams, portents of the future, when in reality we slip only into a black oblivion, our twisted visions of our monotonous lives repeating themselves in disjointed fragments. At the point of death we give in to a forever sleep, but it is not the soothing experience we have been taught to believe; we do not wake to join God. We do not wake at all. Every time we sleep, we taste death. Hypnos walks with his brother, Thanatos, sleep and death are brothers, twins, sons of Nix, the Goddess of Night. If we would like to live forever, then we must remain out of reach of Hypnos, we must refuse sleep…_

Mac placed the book down, feeling tired. The words resonated in his mind, even though he had no belief in them. Sleep was one of the biggest factors of people's lives. On average, one third of a life was spent asleep, yet the reason for it was still unknown. Yes, people needed to rest, but studies – and there had been countless of them – had proved that rest was not the only reason. If it were, then people would sleep less.

He looked at his watch and then the window. The darkness outside was almost masquerading as night, and yet it was only mid-afternoon. The tiredness, he knew, was down to lack of sleep. Tonight he must go home and rest, because for him, that was all that sleep was, contrary to scientific studies. He needed little of it, just enough to function. Maybe he should put himself in for medical research?

The book closed, he toyed with Sid's report on Raimo's death. He'd been injected with a drug which induced sleep, a sedative and a hypnotic drug used for the short term treatment of insomnia and as a relaxant before dental treatment, or minor surgery. It was now illegal without a prescription and was known to have been used as a date rape drug, a nasty chemical compound which had been used for over a century and a half for reasons unlawful.

Mac sat back in his chair, thinking, the tiredness suddenly vanishing. There was a running theme, although how it would be connected to murder, he wasn't sure. A knock at the door broke his thoughts. It opened, and Stella entered, the light entering his office along with her.

"I've got two IDs from the prints Hawkes pulled off the desk drawers in Goddard's rooms at the college," she said, clearly filled with adrenaline. "And matches from both of them. Anne-Marie Townson and Keeley Strachan. Both have priors for shoplifting from Saks, and both attend NYU Law."

"You bringing them it?" Mac said, finally sensing a break through. He knew Flack and Hawkes suspected that someone had entered Goddard's rooms at D'Agostino Hall and emptied them of all of his personal records. For which, there must be a reason.

Stella shook her head. "Not yet. They're at Niagara Falls for the weekend, expected to return on Monday as Keeley has an appointment with Professor Reyes to discuss whether she will be allowed to stay on for her third year as her grades have slipped. I spoke with Reyes – the appointments scheduled for ten AM so I'll be there with Flack to pick her up," she looked at him, her eyes concerned. "You want to grab an early dinner?"

He smiled, standing up and placing the book in a drawer. "Sounds good. The I think I'll head home and sleep for a few hours," he said, wondering if sleep would actually come when he asked.

-&-

The locker room was quiet. It was the time of day when it was usually flooded by officers taking showers before heading off to the nearby bars or, in some cases, home, wanting to wash away the grime of New York's filth. Sickness had depleted their stock, and that of neighbouring precincts. There were no substitutes to call upon, instead everyone who could was working extra, probably unpaid.

Flack sat on the benches near the lockers which separated the men's changing area from the women's. He had no idea why it had been designed like that, why they didn't have two separate areas. Mac had explained once that the precinct was an old building, and when it was thrown up in the 1940's there had been no female officers. When women began working there, instead of spending money on changing the locker room into two separate places, a smaller section had been cordoned off, meaning that some detective, such as Larry Houghton, could find their way into the female section without having to open the door, blaming soap in their eye and not being able to see where he had been going. Angell had remedied that easily enough by poking him in the eye and giving the same excuse. Flack had laughed. It was at that point, a few months ago, that he had realised she had him interested.

"Flack," he heard as the locker room door slammed shut, breaking his reminiscence. "You going home?"

He shrugged, looking up at her, long brown hair curling down past her shoulders. "You got a better suggestion?"

She laughed, sitting down next to him. "I suggest something greasy from the Blue Bar, then a bottle of wine at your place," Angell said. "Neither of us are on shift until, let's see, nine tomorrow. If I stay at yours, you don't have to pick me up. And I can fix the car when it won't start in the morning."

He glared at her in jest. He wasn't one for being able to mess around with cars. Angell, however, had shown otherwise. Out of four older brothers, he supposed one had to be car obsessed and she had served as his slave for a while, picking up enough information to avoid paying garage fees. "People will start talking," he said. "Besides, Jess, I only have so much self control." And what little he did have he'd nearly lost the night before, ending up at her place and giving into the urges he'd been feeling for too long, finding his lips on hers once the door was closed and feeling her respond with the same force.

He'd been the first to pull back. Why, he didn't know. He was beginning to think he was a masochist. He'd spent the rest of the night on her sofa, again, thinking about her, again, and getting very little sleep. Again.

She patted his leg. "This vow of celibacy is not doing me any good, Don," she said. "I hear there's a shortage of monks, you know. Maybe you should go sign up."

"Maybe you should go find a monastery and test their vows," he said, half grumbling. "I'm just being old-fashioned."

"And you're scared you'll disappoint me," she said, eyeing him, baiting him.

He groaned. That was not a challenge he wanted. "Maybe I just have more self-control than you," he said. "Maybe you just want me more." He watched her reaction – indignation was written all over her face. "Stay at mine, Jessica Angell. Sleep with me in my bed, if you like. And we'll see who gives in first."

_All reviews welcomed and replied to. Please let me know your thoughts…_


	6. Chapter 6 Shards of Light

_A/N: Apologise for the delay in this chapter and its length. I was a little plot stuck and had to wait for the plot bunnies to bite before this would work; now thankfully, It's back on track. Because it's back on track this was going to end up being a mammoth chapter so I spilt it into two. Second part will hopefully be up tomorrow – remember reviews spur me onto write!_

Chapter 6- Shards of Light

The room was lit with the bright beams of fluorescent lights, their false suns bouncing off the bleached white walls, blinding him, even through the curtains of his eyes. He knew he was going to die. Wanted it, even. He'd given up trying to pull open the door, knowing that it was secured, it was unbreakable. He'd given up shouting, knowing that no one who cared could hear. Cared. They did care, he knew. Cared about themselves and stopping the damage he was doing to them. He raised a fist and brought it down hard on one of the bulbs, burning his hand. The pain didn't matter, he couldn't feel it as the grip sleep had on his arm was like a vice, clamping down on him, trying to drag him down to meet his brother, death. But the lights acted like buoys, keeping him afloat, stopping this living nightmare from ending. He looked up at the camera in the corner of the room, standing still, knowing they were watching. Knowing they were waiting.

-&-

The Dean's office was as Mac had expected it to be; oak panelled, elaborate book cases filled with leather bound tomes and some more modern volumes. His eyes scanned the shelves for any more works by Fitzgerald but found none, just rows or law texts, followed by complete works of Oscar Wilde, Shakespeare and, surprisingly, Tennessee Williams. Reyes' eyes caught his and he smiled, Reyes saying nothing about his choice of literature, obviously feeling as if he had no need to explain. Mac evaluated the professor; tall, fairly slim, clean shaven with slightly greying hair. He had no distinguishing features, nothing to make him stand out from the crowd. Even the suit which he wore was of less quality that one of Flack's, and having an idea of how much the Dean was paid both from his role at the college and as a consultant in private practise Mac was wondering why he was playing himself down.

"Out of the ten students you asked for only seven are available," Reyes said, sitting down at the other side of the desk, his back to a large window which overlooked Washington Square Park. The light filtered in behind him and on a bright day would blind anyone being interviewed by him. "The other three are on vacation. They have an idea why they're being asked – news spreads fast unfortunately."

Mac nodded, accepting the list Reyes passed to him. "And you have them here now?"

"Six of them, yes. Marlie Pearson hasn't arrived, although when I spoke with her forty minutes ago she said she was in Furman Hall. Shall I call the first one in?" Reyes said. "And can I get you a coffee?"

Mac declined the coffee. Experience and instinct had taught him to accept very little from potential suspects, and at the moment, Reyes still had to be a suspect. "If you could ask Ginnie Holbrook and Mikhail Akerfeldt to come in?" Reyes stood and nodded, exiting the room silently.

Mac moved places, sitting on one of the leather sofas. These weren't formal interviews; he simply wanted to gain some information about Brian Goddard from people other than his colleagues. The students he had selected were ones who had nominated him for an award the college had presented two years previously, where students and faculty alike had nominated the person they thought had influenced them the most. Twelve students had chosen Goddard, stating that he had counselled them through personal and work issues and had helped them complete their freshman or second year. Of the twelve, one had died in a car crash, another had left after falling pregnant, but the other ten were still at the university. Reyes had kept hold of the results, his PA logging them onto a database and they been readily available for Mac.

The first five students had little to say to him, and after Monty Littleton had left the room after saying how 'cool' Goddard was and very little else, Mac had begun wondering whether he was wasting his time. Then Daisy-Rose Taverton had emerged from the dark corridor, her face pale and wan, her eyes full of fear, as if speaking with a member of the NYPD was not on the top of things to do on a Sunday.

"Miss Taverton," Mac said, gesturing for her to sit down. She did, nervously, eyeing him with big blue eyes, the oceans contained in them.

"It's Daisy, please," she said, and Mac knew that it wasn't him she was afraid of. It was simply being there.

"How did you know Professor Goddard – he was never one of your tutors," Mac said, knowing that being to the point would ease her nerves rather than take a gentle approach which might make her suspicious.

She fixed her eyes on a spot behind him, pretending he wasn't there as she spoke. "Brian found me in the library one day when I was upset. He bought me coffee and offered me a place to stay. I was dreadfully unhappy in my halls. He understood and was just… there. Bad things stopped happening, my grades improved – I even got a boyfriend, although my parents disapproved of him. This year – my third – I moved into an apartment with my friend and saw less of Brian. He was happy about that, I think – to know that I was okay now," her voice wobbled and the ocean in her eyes began to spill.

Mac gave her a small smile, hoping she would catch sight of it. "We need information about Brian, Daisy. We have very little to go off at present. Who did he socialise with?"

She shrugged. "He didn't, as far as I know. He read a lot and spent a lot of time on the internet. Maybe he went in chat rooms – I don't know. It sounds terribly selfish, but I was more concerned with me at the time rather than him."

Mac looked at her quizzically, seeing the wall she was rapidly building between them. "What problems were you having in halls?"

"Homesickness, hadn't made friends… the usual stuff." It was a lie, he knew. He also knew that she wouldn't tell him the real reason.

"You said Brian gave you a place to stay, where was that?" he hoped he could get an answer from her. All searches were drawing a blank.

"Mercer Street, number three-eighty. There were three of us staying there – you'll probably find that out anyway," she finally made eye contact with him and he saw the undercurrents of still water.

"Who were they?" he asked, doubting he'd get a straight answer.

She shrugged. "I have names for them, but I doubt they're real. Sam Kaye, Martha Tilton, and Joe something. We didn't mix or speak. We had our own rooms and stayed separate."

"Why?" Mac said. "What was the reason you couldn't talk to each other?"

"None of us wanted to, I guess."

"What name did you have?"

"Dinah Shore. Brian suggested it. He said giving ourselves anonymity would help to distance ourselves from everything that had happened and then we could gain perspective."

He let the silence last as a cloud shifted and a line of light fell into the room, crossing Daisy's face. She was a pretty girl, high cheekbones and clear skin with naturally glossy brown hair. Her features dug up faces from the file in his head, and along with her surname he places her ancestry; she was Phillip Taverton-Brown's daughter, a self-made millionaire who had dealt in stocks and shares since he was seventeen and had recently retired and become a recluse. Daisy was his youngest daughter.

"Did you ever meet Taylor Raimo?" he said, breaking the silence as another cloud blocked the sun. Mac pushed a photograph in front of her, a picture of Raimo from the university database rather than a post-mortem picture taken by Sid.

She nodded, and he was surprised. "Taylor came to see us while we were at Mercer Street. It was clear he was a friend of Brian's although there didn't seem to be a relationship going on. He'd bring food and books sometimes – I had a month when I didn't go out. It was Taylor who talked me through my essays and assignments and helped me stay on the course. He's dead too, isn't he?"

Mac nodded. "Do you have any idea of who would do this?"

She stood up, wiping her tears away. "If I had I would run as far away as I could from them. I have to go, my friends are expecting me."

He let her leave, knowing that there was no more for her to say, no more, he knew, that she could say.

-&-

"They're all musicians from the 1940's," Flack said, banging on the door of 380 Mercer Street. "Sammy Kaye, Martha Tilton and Dinah Shore. Joe was probably Joe Loss."

Mac watched with amusement as Angell regarded Flack strangely. "And I always thought I would only be attracted to guys who lived in the twenty first century ," she said in an undertone which Mac just about caught. He chuckled.

"Actually, my grand-pop was a music buff," Flack said, grinning. "He passed all his old vinyl records onto me. I spent the best part of a week after the scarring incident going through them taking photographs and recording details, thinking they'd be great to sell on eBay until my mom got wind of the idea and put a stop to that."

Angell grinned back as the door opened, an older man looking back at them, his eyes dark, contrasting sharply with his white hair.

"Detective Taylor, NYPD," Mac said, showing his badge. "We have a warrant to search this address."

The man studied the badge closely, before opening the door a little wider. "And why would you want to do that?"

"The listed owner of this place has been involved in a homicide," Mac said.

The man nodded. "I wondered when you'd be round and how long it would take you to find this place." He turned around, letting them into the house. Mac noticed the red lesions at the back of his neck and caught sight of a number tattooed on his left forearm; a Holocaust survivor.

"Auschwitz," Mac said. The tattoo wasn't hidden. The man was proud of surviving.

He nodded. "And the day we forget it is the day it will happen again." He led them into the living room, sparsely decorated, the furniture and wallpaper belonging to the 1960's although it was well kept and clean. "I haven't been here long. I came over from the UK about three weeks ago to see Brian. The last time I saw him was a week ago today. He was staying at his apartment at the university with it being exam time. I am due to return to London on Tuesday. I didn't expect to see him again before I left. When I heard about his death I figured I'd best delay my flight – he was a good man," he looked about the room. "My name is Elior Rostow. My son used to work at the university which is how I know Brian."

"Was seeing Goddard the only reason you came?" Mac said.

Elior shook his head. "I came to warn his about my son. He bared a grudge for the part Brian played in him losing his job. My son sent me a letter five weeks ago, a very strange one, postmarked from New York. It was the first I had heard of him in six years. I came over here in the hope of talking sense into him. I have failed to find him."

"Do you still have the letter?" Flack said, looking through a pile of envelopes on the mantelpiece.

Elior shook his head. "I gave it to Brian. I haven't seen it since."

Mac regarded him carefully, the numbers still bold despite the years, as would be the memories. Elior looked at him, his eyes filled with tales too harsh for words to tell. "We have a warrant to search the house, looking for anything that may help us in finding Professor Goddard's killer. It would be helpful if you would give a statement at the station – Detective Flack will take you there," he looked at Flack who nodded agreement. Mac moved towards the younger detective. "I'll be with you shortly. Stella can replace me here." This was one interview he needed to listen to.

_All reviews are appreciated, and suggestions for improvements also. Reviews also help to feed the plot bunnies - they don't like carrots!_


	7. Chapter 7 An Alternate Sun

Chapter 7 –

_Many thanks to those who have reviewed the last chapter. If you haven't, please drop me a line and let me know who you think's done it, any suspicions, requests…_

_Many thanks to Lily Moonlight for the beta. I apologise if my Polish is a little wrong!_

Chapter 7 – An Alternate Sun

The door opened noisily as Stella turned the key, giving access to a study filled with papers, most unfiled, scattered about the desk and dropped onto the floor. The room was small and furnished in the same style as the rest of the house, the 1960's decor having found its way to every area, it seemed. Stella bent down, picking up a handful of the papers: they were assignments, old ones, from several years ago. She wondered why Goddard had them, what use they were, and bagged them. The other rooms had proved almost fruitless. There had been bills, his passport and other essential paperwork, but apart from the old man, there were no signs of anyone else having been there.

Stella looked at the papers on the desk and noted their topic. All were entitled 'Holocaust Restitution Efforts in the United States'. David Rostow's subject. The date coincided with his tenure at the university. Stella took another look at the essays already bagged – the same area of law, but with a different essay title. It seemed that Goddard had been doing a little research outside of his specialism. She moved the papers out of the way, checking them carefully as she did so. A small notebook computer lay there, causing Stella to smile; Adam would have fun with it once she got back to the lab. She dusted it for prints, pulling them off with the tape carried in her kit. Once done, she picked the computer up, noting that there was no charging lead attached to it, or any where in sight. Underneath the computer lay a small slip of paper. She secured the computer in a bag then returned to its hidden treasure. A slip of paper with names inscribed in ink, names which Stella recognised from the essays and assignments already seen. "Angell," she called to the detective who was busy checking through the other rooms for anything that looked suspicious. So far she'd found nothing out of the ordinary.

"What you got?" Angell said, emerging at the entrance to the room, looking slightly dusty.

"List of names. There's about fifteen in total. Worth looking into," Stella said.

Angell took hold of the list. "I'll copy these down and head over to the precinct, see if anything comes up on the names. You okay for me to leave you?"

Stella nodded. "It's not a crime scene. There's no sign of this being our primary and I shouldn't be too much longer so I'm sure I can deal with it on my own. Did anything of interest come up in the other rooms?"

"Nothing apart from a lot of dust. I know Mac said something about people having stayed here a couple of years ago – there's no sign of that being the case now. Of the six bedrooms – it looks like it was originally three but all have been partitioned – only two show any signs of occupation. One has all the old man's stuff in, the other looks like it contains Goddard's belongings. The rest are only occupied by dust mites and bad furnishings," Angell said, pulling a pen out of her pocket along with her notepad.

"It looks like Goddard was checking out some of Rostow's students," Stella said, looking at the bagged essays as if checking they hadn't grown legs and walked. "It seems we have a suspect. We just need a motive."

"Good. The sooner this case is done with, the better," Angell said. Stella saw the slight shudder she had noticed before run through the younger detective. Angell was usually made of stone, but in the past day and a half Stella had seen her crumble slightly. So far, the murders were senseless and that made it tough, but they would find who had done this and stop them from doing it again, that, Stella was certain of.

Angell noted down the names and left, leaving Stella alone in the house. The silence didn't bother her; in some ways it was soothing, giving her the present of being able to do her job without interruption, her focus solely on hunting evidence of some sort of another.

She passed through the rooms like a breeze, gently disrupting items which had been there for days or months, or in some cases years. One of the bedrooms had a wall of books, clearly an overspill from the study, which wasn't large enough to contain a vast amount. Stella looked at it briefly, her eyes scanning the shelves of volumes. One caught her eye. She pulled it out, the pages dry and brittle, but the title was all she needed. _Sleep Awakens_ by J.M. Fitzgerald. She opened it to the title page and saw a name inscribed on the inside cover. Paul Rhyddian Murphy. It was possible that Murphy had leant the books to Goddard some time ago. Possible. She opened up another evidence bag and ceased her movements, becoming frozen. Downstairs a floorboard creaked. She lay the book down on the bag and took her gun from its holster. Heading toward the door and using it as cover as she peered down the stairs. Another sound. Footsteps. Stella caught her breath and strode to the top of the staircase, angling herself so she could look down without being seen. Nothing was in sight. More footsteps. She began to slip down the stairs, keeping in the shadows. The noises had stopped. She wondered momentarily if it had been Angell she'd heard, coming back to collect something she'd forgotten, but Stella knew Angell would have made herself known.

Downstairs she saw that the door was slightly ajar leading outside onto the street. She paced, almost ran, to it and looked out. A blonde girl with a shoulder bag was passing, her hair tousled by the wind.

"Have you seen anyone come out of here?" Stella called.

The girl turned and shook her head, her features exquisitely pretty. "Sorry. I've not seen anyone – not that I'm paying much attention mind!" She smiled at Stella and continued to walk past. Stella closed the door and began to search through the house, finding nothing and wondering if it had just been the wind and old floorboards creaking temperamentally.

-&-

Elior Rostow had been twenty-six when he was taken to Auschwitz-Birkenau in 1943. He was a Polish Jew and had been slated to die because of it. After two and half months in a place worse than any hell imaginable he escaped along with three others, all of them sonderkommandos, the prisoners forced to aid with the disposal of the corpses after they had been gassed. He had moved to Britain, and after meeting his American wife, emigrated to New York. Death was something he had seen much of, and it did not scare him. The day God decided it was time for him to meet St Peter he would go gladly. His fear was what other humans could do to enforce that meeting.

"My son is a very bitter and twisted man," Elior said, the two detectives, Flack and Taylor sat across a table from him. "He resented the power that other people could wield. The decision to specialize in Holocaust litigation was partly because of me and the stories he heard about Auschwitz. He wanted revenge; he wanted to take the power away, and for many reasons, he wanted that power himself. We – his mother and I – tried to discourage any such traits, but we failed," the old man showed no signs of regret. For him, you could do what you could, but life was too short to bury yourself in negative emotion if you didn't succeed. "He wanted to be a professor. He wanted to have that status so people would listen to him. But instead he abused his power, as we had predicted and he lost his post. He said he was returning to England, going back to his ex-wife, Alicia. He never arrived there and we heard nothing from him until five weeks ago when received a strange letter, as I told you before." He looked up at Mac and Flack, his eyes keen and bright, despite the years and the things he'd seen.

"What did the letter say?" Detective Taylor said. Elior could tell from the man's eyes that had seen killing too, his eyes were filled with the souls of those who had died in front of him, the memories of those who's lives could not have been saved. Elior studied for a moment, then let it go. The day wasn't for making character studies.

"That he had what he wanted and he was in New York. And that was enough, detectives, to make me come here. David blamed Brian for what had happened to him. He could never take responsibility. It was always someone else's fault," Elior sighed for the boy, knowing that his suspicions were likely to be true. "I would imagine David has something to do with Brian's death."

"Can you suggest why he would bring Goddard's body to the station?" the other detective, Flack, said.

"That's where things are blurred. David has Becker's Muscular Dystrophy. He has always maintained a lifestyle which would assist in fighting off the disease, but by now, I would expect him to be in a wheelchair as he is now almost forty-eight. Death is expected in the fifth decade of life, but some have lived until their late sixties. I imagine his condition is what also makes him want control," Elior said. "I have no doubt that David has a lot to do with this, but he won't be alone. However, he'll be a lot of the brains behind it. Whatever he's concocted, it won't be simple."

Mac nodded at him. "Have you anywhere else you can stay, Mr Rostow?"

Elior nodded. "My sister lives in New York. David has no idea where as she's moved twice and lives now with her new husband. David wouldn't even know her surname. I shall provide you with the address and go to her," he eyed the two detectives. "You need to know more about Brian Goddard, don't you?" Mac's eyes nodded at him. "He was a gentle man, a _dobry człowiek__- _nice man.He protected his students from a distance. I met him on several occasions when David worked for the university and liked him immensely, although I never really knew him. I don't think anyone did. He was researching something at present, although he never said what and when he was at home there were a few phone calls, some late at night when one wouldn't expect someone to call. I saw him four times in two weeks. The rest of the time I was trying to look for David, or I was with my sister and brother." He stopped, knowing what they were thinking, that David might target his family. "He would never hurt them, or me," he said gently. "I know you think you have seen every type of cruelty, that you have heard every mother, father, sister, brother say that their loved one wouldn't do that but trust me when I say I have seen more than you and I am under no illusion of what my son is capable of. He would probably be diagnosed by a psychiatrist as having a character disorder. David would kill, but he would need reason, however warped that reason was." Elior stood, the detectives copying his action, almost as if they were about to salute.

"Is there anything else you can tell us about Brian Goddard's movements?" Flack said. "We have very little to go off at present."

Elior shook his head. "Just that most of his time was spent away from his house. Where he went I do not know. Something was consuming him. He also knew very little about David and his current whereabouts – he presumed he was still in England."

The young detective looked at the elder and Elior read what the eyes were saying. He heard more from body language than words. If Brian hadn't known of David's whereabouts, then what possible motive could David have for murdering him? Why would he want him gone? What had triggered the crime?

"You have my cell phone number if you wish to get in touch," Elior said. "If anything comes to mind be assured I will call you." He looked at Detective Taylor, reading the lines in his face, the grey eyes that saw much but had learnt to feel little, then cast his eyes over to Detective Flack, whose young face showed the beginning from where he'd came. "We are different, you know," Elior said. "It isn't all murder. Taking a life isn't always a crime." He felt their eyes in his back as the words resonated against them.

Elior found his own way out of the building, a grey haze covering New York City. He stood outside the precinct and looked around, watching the faces that passed, looking at their expressions, each one filled with the potential for good and evil. He looked down at the numbers on his arm and ran a finger over them; when it was warm his skin reacted with the ink and the numbers rose like Braille, a permanent reminder that the world contained evil, and that he had survived it. It had not won and would continue to be defeated.

-&-

Angell stood in the centre of Washington Square Park and checked her watch, wondering what was keeping Flack. She had learnt by now that he was never on time, born two weeks late and still trying to catch up – or at least that was his excuse. She cast her eyes around the white arch way and marvelled silently at its structure, the whiteness of the marble and the enormity of the seventy-seven foot monument, first built in plaster and stone to commemorate the inauguration of George Washington as president.

It was past lunchtime, and Flack had suggested that they grab a few minutes together in between interviewing another lot of students and colleagues of both Goddard and Raimo. He had also offered lunch, and that, she figured, was where he probably was now; queuing in some sandwich bar, eating his order – and probably hers – before going back for more.

She leant against the arch, looking down the pathway, waiting to see his tall figure approach, the grey light of a dull day casting only the faintest shadows of the people as they walked by. She jumped as she felt a hand on her shoulder and heard a familiar voice say her name.

"I expected you from the other direction," she said, turning round to face Flack. His deep blue eyes were dancing with light and his lips were teasing in a smile that was only for her. It was too easy being with him. Inner demons warned her about the dangers of getting involved, but she didn't want to listen to them. Colleague or not, her instincts told her that this was a man she should know more of.

"Tickets," he said, a hand emerging from his pocket. "The big wheel. I wanted to go on it when it was here last year, but I had no beautiful woman to accompany me." His eyes flickered, daring her to challenge the compliment.

"Didn't realise you needed your hand held, Flack," she said. "I thought you were a big boy." The double entendre hit her as the words left her mouth.

"You know I am, Jessie," he said, trying to resist a victory grin and failing miserably. She ignored him, but couldn't stop the faint blush of pink from appearing on her cheeks. Thankfully, Flack had the grace to ignore it.

"So you got tickets for the wheel?" she said, attempting to change the subject, although memories of the night before were still too clear in her mind.

"I thought it would be a nice break from all of the crap we see, even if it was just for a short time," he said, his words blunt as usual. "And, given that both of us are on late shifts for the next four nights, I figured it would give us a chance to be on our own without work." The smile this time wasn't mocking or boastful, it almost had a shyness, a timidity, that made something inside her crumble, although she would never admitted it.

"What time are the tickets booked for?" she said, watching the wheel as it came to a stand-still.

"About now," he said, checking his watch. "We should run." He grabbed her hand and pulled her down the main path through the park. She laughed at the action, the spontaneity of it, the feeling that she was sixteen again and the murdered and murderers of the world faded into the shadows, out of sight.

There were more people there in suits than she'd expected. Clearly the just after lunch ride was one taken by the City's professionals, a break away from the trial of the day. Students and tourists looked on, some queuing for tickets themselves. She felt a rush of adrenaline as the wheel began to turn, moving up into the air, into the weightless air where nothing else existed apart from the man she was sat with and the city beneath her. She could see for miles; the trees seemed like green dots, few protruding between the granite mountains that rose like inanimate monsters, making the silhouette on the horizon a child's two dimensional picture.

She glanced at Flack, his eyes taking in the view of the city where they lived, a city they never saw, lost among the violent crimes and murders, cleaning up the sins of others, continually looking for blood split. For a few minutes, the city looked new, and she knew he saw it too, that he saw it through new eyes, under a new light, as if the sun had been temporarily altered. "Thank you for this," she said, as the wheel continued to slowly turn, her eyes fixed on the gap where Ground Zero now was. She felt his hand grab hers and squeeze and she smiled, letting him catch her eye.

Giving in, letting go, she moved closer, ceasing the slight distance between them and moved her head to his shoulder. Flack's arm came up automatically around her and pulled her into him. She let the feeling wash over her without analysing it, absorbing it like the city she was flying over. A somnambulist maybe, she felt as if this could not possibly be real, and instead of pulling herself back into a world where nightmares were existent, she inhaled the scent of Flack's skin, her heart rate rising and listened to the sounds that drifted from underneath them as they flew.

The feeling of dreaming stayed with her even after her feet touched the ground, Flack taking hold of her hand and it felt fine. "What gave you the idea?" she said, listening to the calls of people as they settled themselves in the cabins on the wheel.

"I noticed it this morning and thought if we got chance it would be a fun thing to do. You want an ice-cream?" he said, noticing the stalls that were set up.

She laughed as he ran off, seeing him produce his badge in order to queue jump. She felt alive, as if for a short time death and all his friends had finally let go of her. Leaning against a nearby tree, she allowed herself to look at Flack away from the suits and the badge, away from the job and saw him simply as a man. She had stayed with him the night before, slept in his bed, a row of pillows between them. Neither had gotten to sleep easily. Eventually his voice had whispered softly, as if she might have been asleep.

"Jessie," she'd heard. It had become his name for her, a softer form of her work name. A name that reminded her she was female, although she was somehow more acutely aware of that in Flack's presence anyway. "Can we shift these goddamn pillows?"

She'd laughed, turning towards him, his eyes blue even in the midnight darkness. "You giving up your vows already?"

He'd given her his 'don't mess with me' grunt before moving them away, then moved himself closer, nuzzling her hair, his lips on the back of her neck. For a moment she'd been on fire as his knees brushed into the back of hers, one hand on her stomach, and then she'd heard his breathing deepen, sleep finally finding him and then taking her into his captivity too. When she'd awakened to the morning call of birds outside of the window her head was on his chest, their legs entwined. He was already awake.

And then they'd given in. All bets off.

He returned with ice cream and they ate it as they left the park, the alternate sun taking its leave, and the grim light of day returning as the ice cream melted, their hands entwined still, a piece of sun still left.

-&-

A car's horn beeped erratically as it deviated around an illegally parked car, the driver frustrated with the few moments of his day that had been stolen by inconsiderate parking. He turned briefly to glare at the person sat in the driver's seat; a young girl with what looked like a cop next to her. Maybe she had been pulled over.

The car remained in the same spot, failing to move. Parking attendants left it be, seeing the NYPD uniform, and booked other offenders instead. Inside the car, the girl sat, her brown hair straight and long, thinning the once plump face that had lost its puppy fat after the fifth attempt at dieting. The man sat, seemingly alert, his uniform smart although his hair was unkempt.

No one noticed them particularly. In New York City people go their own ways, too hurried to stop and check, the day too short to care. Cars negotiated round them, people passed by and the sun stayed on course to complete its daily journey. No one noticed how the car had been there for hours, or how the windows became slowly condensated. No one noticed how the people inside failed to blink or speak, their faces holding the same expression. No one noticed how still they stayed, not a twitch or a single movement. No one noticed.

_Please review! I accept anonymous reviews for those who haven't got accounts, or are too lazy to log in! And all of those who are lurking – make yourself known!_


	8. Chapter 8 Look, A Little Closer

_A/N: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far. This was one of those chapters that was quite difficult to write, so let me know what you think. Apologies for the slow update, I'm just so busy with real life at the moment that I'm too tired in the evenings to write. School finishes in two weeks, so hopefully things will slow down now!_

Chapter 8 – Look, A Little Closer

The body block had already been put in place, pushing the chest up and causing the arms and neck to fall backwards. The scalpel scored along the skin, cutting from the top of each shoulder down to the breastbone. Gravity provided the only form of blood pressure, the bleeding from the cuts minimal. The blood was bright red and telling, the slow flow like lava as it began to creep away from the cut across arctic skin. A Stryker saw whirred, a cloud of dust flying free as it hit bone. Once the chest plate was lifted a clear view of the heart and lungs could be had. There they were, lifeless, unbeating. Matter.

With careful fingers, the pericardial sac was opened and blood removed from the pulmonary veins, no clot found in the arteries. The heart was removed and passed to another pair of hands to be weighed as the man that had once stood in the very room in which he now lay was viewed from the inside out.

Sid stood back, knowing he needed to proceed no further. Cause of death was evident; only a few more minor details would need fixing before the body could be reconstituted and eventually laid to rest.

"Cause of death," Sid said to Sam as he noted the weight of the heart. "Is carbon monoxide poisoning or cyanide poisoning. I am one of the genetically unable who cannot detect the smell or cyanide. The pink lividity and bright red blood give it away quite well." He looked in awe upon the body, his gaze unmistakable. Even in death the human body could say so much, and sometimes so simply.

His eyes moved to the body on the adjacent table, this one a female, only twenty-two years old. Her blonde hair was splayed about her head, her face pretty even in death in life she would have been beautiful. Sid pulled down the sheet that was concealing her, exposing her arm. Feint marks were there, consistent with injection sites. Just like Taylor Raimo.

Unlike Taylor Raimo they hadn't had any savage acts forced upon them. Their eyes were open, misted over, no longer needing to see the physical world. He hoped that wherever their souls had move onto they were having pleasant dreams.

"You think they're connected with the college victims?" Sam said, the first time words had emerged from him for over an hour.

Sid shrugged. "That's not up for us to decide. There are similarities, but coincidences do happen." He unclipped his glasses and put them back round his neck, hearing familiar footsteps enter the room. "Detectives," he said, turning to look at Flack and Angell who had found their way down to his lair. "What can I do for you?"

"We're here about these two. Officer Mare was one of mine," Flack said, his voice still and cool, yet underneath the composure it bubbled. Sid saw the anger and despair. He'd known when he began who the male victim was, but had never met him. Mare had been transferred over from New Jersey a couple of months ago and had had no reason to make an appearance in the coroner's office. The death of an officer was taken badly; no matter how long you had known them or what you thought of them. It was one of your own.

"The girl is Marlie Pearson. She was meant to meet Mac yesterday and never turned up, although she had allegedly spoken with Professor Reyes at nine am yesterday to say she was on her way," Angell said. Sid regarded her and the way she stood with Flack, slightly too far into each other's personal space. He had seen it coming for some time – the glances, the half smiles, the standing a little too close to each other. It would be good for them both, he knew. This job could be a lonely one and having someone who understood it would make it less so.

Sid had known Marlie's name already; she'd come in identified, unlike many other bodies that found their way onto his table. He cast her a glance, hoping that her soul was on its way to a better place than the last. Then he gave his concentration to the detectives. "Cause of death for both them is poisoning. There are no knife or bullet wounds but they both have injection markings. Interestingly, I suspect they both have different times of death. I would place money if I were a betting man, on Officer Mare being the first victim, although stomach contents will tell me more." He smiled briefly at Sam who was on his way to tox now, taking several vials that had been extracted from Mare. "I deduce they were sedated with the choral hydrate and then gassed."

"The car was free of any carbon monoxide," Flack said. "First thing Stella did was test for it."

"Can any of you smell anything unusual?" Sid said, unclipping his glasses from around his neck and putting them on properly, watching as both detectives began to sniff the air like bloodhounds sniffing for their prey.

"I can smell something strange and bitter," Angell said, looking as if she suddenly remembered something important. "It was cyanide poisoning, wasn't it? I can smell almonds." Flack looked at her, slightly incredulous. She shrugged. "It's genetic. Only a very small percentage of the population can detect the smell, and it's generally women. Funnily enough, my father can detect it also, but my mother can't. Sunday afternoons were always fun at our house – my father seemed to want to entertain us with weird and wonderful facts from an early age." She rolled her eyes.

Sid nodded. "Your genetic code helps here. I can't smell cyanide, and neither can Sam. This confirms it. Had been carbon monoxide poisoning you wouldn't have smelt anything, except Flack's aftershave." he said. "I'm running tests on the internal organs to confirm. As soon as you've gone I will continue their removal." He smiled at Flack. He wasn't a lover of autopsies, and generally left as soon as he had the information he needed. Angell faired somewhat better, but he doubted that even she wished to see the intricacies of what he was about to do.

To Sid's surprise, Flack began to move closer to Mare, his eyes scanning the uncovered flesh . "Have you found any strange markings on Goddard, Raimo or these two?" he said, his eyes looking over Mare's torso.

"Only what's been logged in the autopsy report," Sid said, his own eyes beginning to glance over flesh whose stories he'd already memorised.

"Tattoos – specifically numbers," Flack mumbled, unsure himself of the thoughts that were clearly prompting him. Sid moved closer to Mare, his hand travelling up to his head. The officer's hair had been relatively long and thick, needing a trim. Mare had been suffering depression since his divorce and his appearance had been neglected.

"What are you thinking, Flack?" Angell asked, remaining standing in the same place, her eyes watching every move Flack was making.

"Our prime suspect – only suspect – was a specialist in Holocaust Litigation. Jews were gassed in the concentration camps with Zyklon B," Flack moved his head down towards Sid's, staring at Mare's scalp through the thick hair. "History was one subject I actually enjoyed."

"And I don't suppose the teacher was female and hot?" Angell said with some sarcasm.

"I asked for extra tutoring," Flack said, looking up at her with a grin.

"Zyklon B," Sid continued for him. "Was hydrogen cyanide. It prevents cellular respiration. Death occurs within a few minutes when there's approximately 300mg per metre cubed in air. The Nazis are the most famous users of it." The morgue fell below its usual level of quiet. None of those in the room liked what they were hearing.

"Look," Sid said, breaking the iced silence. He moved the light so it beamed on the right side of Mare's skull, parting hair, and finding a tiny bald spot and a number tattooed on it, the scabs blurring what had been scribed.

"One hundred and forty two," Flack said after a few seconds of working it out. He looked up at Sid. "And it looks very fresh. Any chance you can check on the others for these?"

Sid nodded. "Goddard and Raimo definitely did not have them. Goddard was almost bald – it would have been noticeable. Raimo had recently had his hair shaved very short, so again, we would have seen it almost immediately. Maybe we'll find a similar marking on Marlie." He strode over to the table next to Mare where Marlie lay, deft fingers searching through her hair. He found it almost in the same position, only the hair wasn't shaved and the tattoo was less recent. A lot less recent. "She's number fifteen," he said. "What made you think of checking scalps?" he looked at Flack.

"Two weeks ago I had a thug in a cell who had numbers tattooed all over his head. Elior Rostow had a Nazi tattoo on his forearm. It was a hunch," Flack shrugged, looking up at the door as Mac stood there.

Mac's expression was deadly serious, his eyes were alert to any movement and Sid could sense the soldier in him returning as a mission was laid in front of him.

A faint light from the half open door made him look almost shadow-like as he remained still. His voice broke the morgue's silence, shattering it. "Paul Murphy's missing."

-£-

It didn't matter if there were any other people in the lab at the time or not, or whether a massive catastrophe was occurring outside, or even if every single one of the Suicide Girls had walked into the room; Adam did not do distraction when he was onto something. Rather like a dog with a bone, he did not let go, and this bone was proving very juicy indeed.

He replayed the ten second slot taken from a surveillance camera just outside the back entrance to the Penny Black bar two blocks away from D'Agostino Hall. Manipulating the screen, he zoomed in on the face of the man who had just walked out, looking rather stupefied and lost. His pupils were dilated and he stumbled slightly, a state that many of his colleagues had seen him in during recent weeks. Officer Mare had left Lindsay, and like Flack had predicted, had found a bar and begun to drown his sorrows. Adam pressed play and continued to watch the scene. A dark haired girl came out of the same door, placed a hand on his shoulder and mouthed words at him, words which Adam could not make out as her hand obscured her mouth, as if she was aware that the camera was watching her. Mare placed his arm around her waste and she helped him to walk out of the camera's sight. Eleven-thirty pm, two days ago. No one had seen him since, not until his body had been discovered by another cop, sat in a car next to a pretty girl.

Adam pressed print and black and white stills of Mare and the girl from the bar peeled off the printer, the noise of it alerting Stella who came over from her station.

"What've you got?" she said, craning her neck to see.

Adam felt himself run hot, her closeness making his breathing shallower. He still retained his teenage awkwardness, and knowing it only made him feel even more awkward. "Mare left the Penny Black bar at eleven-thirty with a red head. He looks as if he was either very drunk or someone had slipped him something." He passed Stella the picture, needing to take a step away.

"How did you manage to get through the footage so quickly?" Stella said, the note of amazement in her voice making him feel proud of himself, forgetting the awkwardness for a second.

"I looked at the map and the bars that were near to the place where he left Lindsay. Two had offers on Guinness and I knew that was what Officer Mare drank, so I checked those first. It didn't take long," he said. Stella said nothing, her eyes staring at the picture.

"I recognise her," she said. "She walked passed Brian Goddard's house while I was there, only her hair was fair… Adam – can you get me a close up of her?" Stella pulled a chair up to his desk while he leant over; tapping rapidly into the computer and making a clear shot of the girl appear on screen in seconds. "This is her. I heard noises from downstairs – I found no one in the house and when I looked out, she was walking passed!" Her expression showed that she was mentally kicking herself. "I thought she was just a passer-by. Damn!"

"You weren't to know, Stella," Adam said, for some reason feeling guilty. "It could just have been someone walking passed – not everyone's a criminal." Although sometimes he wondered otherwise.

Stella shrugged, still clearly annoyed with herself. "Can you run her face through the database and see if we get a match?" she said

Adam rapidly clicked a few keys and after a moment the screen began to flick through images. He and Stella watched in a pregnant silence, their eyes fixated on the monitor, waiting for its results.

No match found.

The anticipation turned into disappointment.

"Back to square one," Stella said, picking up the picture and walking to the door. "I'll go find Mac and pass this on. We might be able to drum up a uniform to try and get an ID from one of the bars or the university." She sighed and looked frustrated. "I just don't know when we'll be able to get someone to go though – there are even more people off today than yesterday."

Adam thought for a moment, his nervousness changing to worried excitement. "What if I go – I know I have Goddard's computer to look at, but Kendall's already started going through the files. I don't look like an officer, people might be happy to talk to me. The bar managers were happy enough to give me footage from their security systems."

Stella nodded, her eyes showing amusement which made him feel embarrassed. "You'll need to check with Mac, but that might be an idea. If we can get an ID on her this case might start to heat up."

Adam smiled slightly. It would be nice to get out of the lab. It would give him something to tell Kendall later.

-&-

Danny sat uncomfortably at his station, laptop in front of him and an untouched glass of something nasty called 'dioralyte' next to him. His stomach gurgled ominously and he sent a threatening glare at the glass, as if it was the root of all that was evil. He should, he knew, be at home. Unfortunately, Danny did not do boredom well, and although he was sick, he wasn't sick enough to not be bored. He was confined to the lab and had been told not to get to close to anyone and then given a list of names to research.

The computer began to consume him as he began to pull up details on the fifteen people whose names had been discovered on a slip of paper hidden underneath Goddard's computer. His mind saw connections between them, found dates which coincided and three missing persons reports which alerted him and made him cold on the inside. As he looked up the final name on the list he took a swig of the repulsive drink, knowing that he would need to be well for what was about to come.

_Please do review – they are the best motivation to write!_


	9. Chapter 9 The Moon, It Calls Your Name

_A/N: Thank you to all who have reviewed so far, especially those who return to previous chapters and review those! Thanks to all of you who have added this story to your favourites or alerts._

_I love to know what you think, whether it be good or bad. All comments are useful in trying to improve what and how I write._

_Thank you to Lily Moonlight for the read through._

Chapter 9 – The Moon, It Calls Your Name

Fingers graze across skin, learning every nuance, every scar, every inch. The half light of late evening slips in through the curtains, from behind blinds and watches unnoticed as hands read the words that are written on the body. For some, the act of love is a simple one; a chance to connect, to give and receive pleasure, to become lost in another. For others, it is a chance to escape; all thoughts can be lost in moments of physicality. And for a few, it is manipulation and power, the chance to possess, to dominate and control.

The old, dying sun crept across her face as the slight wind blew the curtains and she looked at the man next to her. His features were almost perfect; his hair dark and thick, his bare arms strong and muscular. She remembered being wrapped in them, enjoying the feeling of being taken, of letting him take her with his eyes on fire with lust. She smiled as he breathed deeply, inhaling the morning air in his sleep. His eyes moved behind his lids as he entered the part of sleep where dreams came most easily. If she woke him now, he would be able to tell her what those dreams were. But she would let him sleep, enjoy the dreams.

She lay back down, her lips against his neck, feeling the heat from his body. He began to stir, his hand reaching round to touch her, to feel her skin and to take possession of it. Then he turned around, pulling the covers off her, leaving her exposed. She didn't act shy, he already knew she wasn't. Instead she smiled at him as his eyes opened, denying sleep. And then she smiled at the camera, tucked away in the corner, watching the beginning of her torment of Maxwell Wilson III.

-&-

Mac looked at the unwrapped sandwich that Stella had brought several hours ago, sat next to the half-drank mug of coffee and wondered why he didn't feel hungry. His eyes transferred to the report Danny had just placed on his desk before leaving to head home. He shouldn't have been in work, but what Danny should and shouldn't do had never had any actual bearing on what he did. Mac picked up the papers and began to read. The report focused on the names found under Goddard's laptop, giving details of who they were, addresses, next of kin and then other information, information that Mac didn't want to have thrown into an investigation that was already too complex given the number of staff they were down to.

His door opened without making a sound and Stella appeared, eating what looked to be the remains of a chocolate éclair. For a millisecond, Mac was transported to another reality, where there was no murder, no strange books about sleep, no missing professors; there was just him and Stella.

"I saw Danny on the way back in," she said, wiping a bit of chocolate from the edge of her mouth with her finger. "He muttered something about a report on the names?"

Mac nodded. "I was just starting to read through it now. I've had too many people on the phone wanting to know why we now have four dead bodies and no one in custody," he said with a sigh.

"They're just doing their job, Mac, just like we're doing ours," she pulled up a chair a next to him and sat down on the arm, looking over him shoulder at Danny's scrawl. "He needs to be sent on a typing course. I can barely read that."

Mac gave a faint laugh. Danny's writing was almost unreadable, but Mac had read – or deciphered – enough of his reports to be a master decoder by now. "I'll read," he said to Stella. He cast his eye the words, some underlined, some double underlines, a few circled. Danny wrote like he talked – with great emphasis. ""Of the fifteen people listed, eight are accounted for and are students, or have been students at NYU Law. All were at sometime students of David Rostow. They are well and have no idea why their name would come up; although one person, Niall Wentworth, suggested that it might be because they were in the same class as Shoshanna Sullivan, the girl Rostow was accused of having an affair with.

"The seven remaining names are more of a problem. Six have been listed as messing persons, and one, Joel Jones, was found murdered seven months ago. Cause of death was asphyxiation and the case remains unsolved (see attached report),"" Mac skipped a couple of pages and found the case report, raising his eyebrows at Stella. "He's gone through each of the six missing persons and listed details about them, and included the reports on them. He's been thorough." Stella nodded and Mac took the non-verbal sign as a cue to keep reading.

""Deirdre Lamores,"" he began. "Aged 23. Born in Marinette, Wisconsin. Parents divorced. Began her degree at NYU Law in 2005. Missing persons report filed eight months ago by her roommate.

"Jack Causier. Aged 19. Worked as a janitor at NYU. Lived with parents in Queens. Mother filed mis per report ten months ago after he'd been missing for a week. Has learning difficulties.

"Helen Naviro. Aged 32. Mature student. Wife of Vitesh Naviro – owner of NavCell – first year law student. Husband filed a missing persons report two years ago. Helen has since sent three post cards, all hand delivered, saying she's fine and doing well.

"Damon Goodier. Aged 21. Third year law student from Redlands, California. Mis persons filed by parents after he failed to show up at home eighteen months ago.

"Jackie Simms. Aged 25. Studying for a post graduate degree in Holocaust litigation. Missing persons report filed ten months ago, but two months later her parents received a letter telling them that she had a 'new life' and did not want them the make contact with her. No further follow up.

"Jennifer Dunn. Aged 19. First year undergrad. Flatmate reported her as missing a year ago. Parents have since had contact from her asking them to consider her as being dead, but each month she withdraws around ten thousand dollars from her account."" Mac put the report down and looked at Stella. "Danny makes one final note at the bottom. Apart from Jack Causier, all of them had several thousand dollars in their bank accounts which have been accessed several times since they disappeared. Naturally, the families have taken this as a sign of them being alive and have kept on transferring money."

"Even though they have no way of knowing whether they're actually alive," Stella said. "We will need to speak with their families." Mac sensed her frustration and worry. They didn't have the man power.

"I think they're alive," Mac said. "I know we have one unsolved murder on the list, and one boy who made no contact at all, but don't think this is a serial killer. I think this is a cult."

Stella's eyes flamed with interest and the life that the day had sapped away returned. "It would fit. Colleges are prime hunting grounds for cults, and given what we know of David Rostow I'd say that was a good theory."

"The works of J.M. Fitzgerald have always had a cult following – I wonder if they are Rostow's smokescreen. College students always wish they didn't have to sleep, either because there aren't enough hours in the day to party, study and work, or because they are under so much pressure they can't sleep and start to become worried and depressed because of their lack of sleep – beginning a vicious circle," Mac said. "Women in particular are prone to depression caused by lack of sleep as they need an hour more than men per night on average. Four out of the six missing persons were women."

Stella looked at him knowingly. "You think Rostow was promising them a solution to their sleep problems?"

"Maybe not Rostow. He would be the big God-like figure that members rarely meet, only seeing them as a member of a large audience. Rostow – if he is the leader – would have other members doing the recruiting," Mac said. He felt as if something had finally broken the case, his second wind was emerging and he was awake, ready.

"Such as the girl in the Penny Black bar," Stella said. "Adam got an ID on her – Rachael McKinsey. Why go for Mare though? His issues weren't with sleeping."

Mac shook his head. "Mare was targeted. I imagine the girl was around Raimo's apartment when Mare and Lindsay were there. Mare left and she followed him. She may have wanted information about the case. This is obviously an underground cult. No one's mentioned it; we've heard nothing about it. Targets are pre-selected."

"Probably according to how rich they are. They become 'saved' by the group and are encouraged to donate money to further it. What details are there on the man who was found murdered?" Stella said, running her fingers through her hair. Mac became aware of the growing lateness of the day and the fact that they'd had very little sleep since the body of Brain Goddard had been deposited at the precinct. He wanted to say to her to go home, or suggest that they grabbed a meal together, but Flack was not yet back from searching for Paul Murphy and Mac still had lines he couldn't cross.

"According to the first page of the report he was missing for twelve weeks before turning up in Central Park. He had mild cerebral palsy which affected his right leg. A legal firm were sponsoring him through law school," Mac said, briefly skimming the attached report.

"So he had no money. Neither did the other boy who was disabled," Stella said. "Rostow's father was at Auschwitz-Birkenau, wasn't he? I don't like where this is leading, Mac. We get a body dumped at the precinct – why bring it to us? Did they want congratulating or want some attention? "

Mac nodded. "I think someone wanted our attention drawing to this. Goddard was clearly onto something, that's possibly what got him killed. Somewhere, Rostow has a base. Probably with cellars or somewhere that can keep the fumes of hydrogen cyanide inside. We need to find that base," he said, glancing at his watch. "I'm surprised that Flack isn't back yet, or at least called." He looked at the phone, willing it to ring. "I think I'll call him."

-&-

Diane Murphy was a tall, attractive woman who clearly liked nice things. The house she owned in Manhattan was filled with objects that Angell knew she would never be able to own, or even want to be able to own. She sat next to Flack on a leather sofa that looked brand new and debated becoming vegetarian.

Mrs Murphy sat opposite them, her nails manicured and hair looking as if it had been done in a salon. Which, Angell figured, it probably had. She was grateful at that moment for her genetics, the skin that looked smooth and unblemished even when her make-up had worn off and the hair that was thick enough to style itself. She smiled at the woman, and felt herself relax.

"When did you first become concerned about your husband, Mrs Murphy?" Flack said. The top button of his shirt was open and his tie had been removed. Angell wondered whether this was his way of asserting power over his surroundings, their formality a little too overwhelming.

"Yesterday evening when he wasn't home," she said. "We had dinner planned with friends and he didn't turn up. I thought he had been delayed with college work; quite often on a Saturday he catches up with paper work and students that have fallen behind, but if he's going to be late for an arrangement he calls. He always calls."

The façade of mascara and powder fell away as the tears came, and Angell found herself feeling sympathetic. She regarded the woman as she cried, the story about her husband's disappearance emerging from between tears and sobs. A note of recognition sprung into Angell's mind and she tried to place where she had seen the face before, wondering if it had been a photo at the university, or a publicity shop in the newspaper. Then it came to her. Diane Murphy was also known as Diana Merchant, an actress who had been in a couple of soap operas, one of which had been Angell's mother's favourite several years ago, one that Angell had abhorred.

"Do you mind if we take a look around?" Angell said, when the sobbed story allowed her room to speak.

Mrs Murphy looked shocked, as if it was the last thing she expected. "My husband's not here," she said. "And don't you need a warrant to search the place?"

Flack shook his head. "We only need a warrant if permission hasn't been granted," he said. "So unless you refuse?" He stood up. Diane Murphy looked confused, as if she wasn't sure what to do, and then finally nodded.

"Sure. Go ahead. Anything I can do to help you find him," she said, another soft sob punctuating her speech.

They left her on the sofa, making their way upstairs, out of earshot. "You know who she is?" Angell said, keeping her voice low.

Flack nodded. "Diana Merchant. And that was one big act," he said. "I'd put next month's salary on her husband not being missing at all."

"You think he's on the run?" Angell said as they found the master bedroom. She stood in front of the bed, looking at the covers. It hadn't been made. Both sides had been slept in.

"I think he's hiding. He knows something and he's trying to fake his disappearance," Flack pulled open wardrobes, the rails showing gaps where clothes should have been. Downstairs, Angell heard a door slam.

They both moved quickly, without speaking, Flack running to the back of the house and Angell towards the front door. She heard Diane call her husband, shouting to him to run and then she heard a bang as something was pushed to block Flack's path, or so she assumed.

She left the front door open, pulling out her radio as she ran, shouting instructions, calling any officers who were in the vicinity to assist. She headed around the back of the houses, knowing that was where the shout from Diane had been aimed. The sound of a bullet leaving a gun reverberated around her ears and she upped her pace, her heart pounding and the vision almost blinded with the adrenaline that was pumping through her.

Angell turned down an alleyway and saw Flack holding his leg, his face wincing and looking pale. "That way," he said, pointing down toward the main road. "He's armed. I'll call it in."

She began to run again, keeping her emotions under control. As she reached the road she heard the screech of tyres and saw a silver Mercedes SLK pull away from the sidewalk, causing another car to swerve and its driver to beep angrily. She called it in, knowing that Paul Murphy was now well on his way to whatever hideout he had arranged. She caught her breath, her head and heart pounding, waiting for the sound of sirens to descend.

Instead she heard a second shot.

The noise burnt the air and she felt herself choke on the smoke, the thoughts of what could have happened. She ran, instinctively, without thinking, to where she had left Flack. There was no sign of him. The alleyway was empty.

She pushed open the door to the back of the building, not speaking, needing to not alert anyone there, but her breathing giving her away.

"Jessie," she heard his voice. Her heart slowed. "It's okay."

She followed his words, pushing open the door to the living room, where she saw Mrs Murphy's body sat on the sofa, trails of red blood staining the leather, dripping down from hole she had put in her head.

A cell phone's ring broke the silence. Flack put his hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. "Mac," he answered. "This is turning into some Shakespearean tragedy."

-&-

By the time they reached her place it was midnight. The bullet had grazed the back of his left calf, taking off a bit of skin and tissue. It wasn't a pretty sight, and would certainly add to his growing collection of scars. Angell had stayed with him while he went through the laborious process of being in ER. She had waited outside while he was treated, her face expressionless, a colleague waiting for her injured partner. Never once did she give her concern away, except when she met his eyes and he read what she felt.

There was no news of Murphy's location. There was no news on a location for Rostow either. Mac had sat with them while they waited between treatments and for different doctors, updating them on his cult theory. It had all sounded too plausible.

He was led to the bed he had often fantasised about sleeping in with Jess next to him. He lay down, his leg throbbing with pain, the pain killers in Jess' purse, unopened. He heard her pouring liquid, probably whisky, and the kettle boiling. The smell of coffee filtered through, turning Irish before it reached him.

Her dressing gown was tied loosely; bare skin exposed that made him take his mind off the pain in his leg. She placed the drink down next to him and he sat up, the duvet slipping down to his waist, his chest bare and the scarring on show. She sat on the edge of the bed, next to him, and let her fingers trail over the scar, the only sound the ticking of the clock punctuating each sentence as she began to read his body.

Flack moved up his hand and cupped the side of her face, lifting it to look in her eyes. She was unsmiling, her eyes dark and as deep as a well.

And then the force came; the force that demanded touch, both painful and painless, pinches and caresses, a demand for feeling alive. He pulled the belt of the dressing gown open and the material uncovered her. He sat up and pulled her to his chest, feeling her skin against his, her hair brushing his shoulders as their lips met. He heard her cries mingle with his as she reached a peak he wished he could understand, and would spend however long she would let him trying to understand. Afterwards her curled around her, his eyes wide open, listening to her sleep, the clock ticking still, in the background, keeping time until dawn.

Covers are shed and we lie naked, our lover's touch forever ghosts upon our bodies, just as our fingers recall the paths they have smoothed. Acts of love are memorised by senses; a scent can take us back a decade to first kisses, a song can make us recall first heartbreaks, a familiar pair of eyes can make hearts beat until chests threatened to burst. A graze of fingers can cause cries of pleasure, and of pain.

Fingers graze across skin, learning every nuance, every scar, every inch.

_Apologies for the slightly lengthier chapter. Please review and tell me how it went!_


	10. Chapter 10 Daytime Sleepers

_A/N: I seem to apologise a lot for the delay in posting this story. However, school's now out for summer, so hopefully it'll be a chapter a day for the next couple of weeks. Thank you to those who have reviewed – I will make time to reply tomorrow. Reviews are still very much appreciated and enjoyed, so let me know what you think, good or bad._

_Some bad language in this chapter._

_Thanks to Lily Moonlight for the look through forthe first part!_

Chapter 10 – Daytime Sleepers

Guilt had grasped every thought in her mind with both its hands, clutching on to them with a vice-like grip. The light in the room had gone out, leaving the day washed grey and without colour. Lightless.

Lindsay rested her head back against the lockers and recalled for the thousandth time that minute the instant she had told Tomas Mare that he didn't have to stay with her. She remembered Flack's expression when he'd found that Mare hadn't kept to his post, and the prediction he'd made. _He'd have found the nearest bar_. She hadn't known. No one had informed her. She remembered Angell's face when she'd told her that Mare's body had been found in a car, her expression one full of questions, questions directed at Lindsay. Why had she told him to go? Why had she insisted she was alright on her own? She had thought Flack over-cautious, too over-protective, and now she was beginning to regret those thoughts. Maybe it hadn't been her he was protecting. Mare had been transferred because of personal issues: working with a CSI as they collected evidence was easy and generally interesting. Pairing Mare with her gave him a chance to slide back into the job.

She dug her nails into the wood of the bench and cursed herself and her inability to think outside of the box when it came to people. As a scientist, she knew she was good, outstanding in fact. She didn't doubt her ability or knowledge as a CSI. But she struggled to read people, and found it difficult to empathise with them, or get inside their heads like Mac and Stella. She closed her eyes, wishing she could rewind the days back to before Goddard's body was left in an elevator in the precinct, to before she'd told Mare to go. The door creaked open and she looked up, torn from her list of regrets. Danny stood in front of her, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, looking tired and sick.

"You shouldn't be in work if you're ill," she said, wishing the concern she felt for him would be reflected in her voice.

He shrugged. "I can do lab work and stay away from people. There's only so much daytime TV a man can talk," he said, unzipping his jacket. "How are you? I tried calling you last night but there was no answer."

She wondered what to say. She didn't like appearing weak, or admitting she'd made a mistake, but that was impossible not to do. She'd avoided his calls on purpose; as usual, she couldn't find the right words. "I needed time to think," she said, knowing that it sounded pathetic.

"It wasn't your fault, Linds," he said, leaning against the lockers and looking at her through his glasses. His prescription was high, incredibly high, so his lenses were always the thinnest he could get. Detail. She was good with detail.

"Flack told him to stay with me. He told me to keep Mare with me until we got back to the lab. I overrided him, Danny, and its cost a man his life," she said, admitting it. The words tasted sour in her mouth.

"You weren't to know that a psychopath was going to pick him up in a bar," Danny said. "If Flack had been clearer with you, you'd have understood."

She shook her head, not wanting to hear the lame excuses he was making up for her. None of it was Flack's fault. She looked at Danny, eager to please, eager to make her smile, most of the time. He was trying to make her feel better, she knew, that was what Danny did. He made people feel better. "Danny, I'm not allowing in self-pity. I made a bad call. I doubt Flack's going to want to work with me ever again, and I'm not surprised."

"Flack doesn't bear grudges," Danny said. "Yeah, it was a bad call. We've all made them. But you couldn't have known what was going to happen. You have to move on with it, Linds." He looked at her, as if reading her thoughts. "How about coffee later?"

She smiled and shook her head. As much as part of her wanted Danny's comfort, she knew it wasn't wise to go back there. It would be too easy. "Another time," she said, feeling even more cut off as he nodded and left the locker room, leaving her to the thoughts that would not cease tormenting her.

-&-

"He was a good boy," the woman across the table said as she sipped a cup of coffee which had just been poured. "Bright. Intelligent. He worked hard as if he wanted to make up for his disability. Not that it was much of a disability." She stared at the cup, as if waiting for words to appear on it.

"Did your son appear withdrawn at all, or depressed?" Mac said, his eyes sympathetic.

The woman shrugged. The action answered Mac's question. "I suppose he was a little different. He'd had a girlfriend but she'd finished with him. The trouble was most of their friends had sided with her and Joel seemed very much alone." She began to cry. Mac pushed a handkerchief toward her and she wiped her eyes, trying to regain composure.

"Who was his girlfriend?" Stella asked gently. Mac didn't turn to look at her, but he was aware it was her sat there and not Lindsay or Angell. As much as he liked his colleagues and respected what they did, working with Stella was different. He knew what she was likely to say, even though her quickness of thought often surprised him. They were like well oiled cogs, he supposed, although he knew she would not like the comparison.

"Shoshanna. Shoshanna Sullivan. They called her Shoshie for short. She was a pretty girl. Dark, Jewish, well-mannered. They were together for almost two years and Joel worshipped the ground Shoshie walked on," she choked back tears and Mac saw the disdain she held for Shoshanna in her eyes.

"Why did they split up?" Mac said. Fire burned in the eyes of Joel Jones' mother and Mac almost pitied the girl who had incurred her wrath.

"I have no idea," she said. "One week she was over most night, hating her dorm mate and loathing her course. She and Joel were very all-in-all to each other – always had been. At first it made me worry, but when it seemed they were going the distance I said nothing. Then one week she didn't come round at all. Joel said she'd made friends with some people at the college and he didn't like them. The next thing I know they've spilt up and her new friends have become his. He became sullen and sulky, like he was fourteen again and I didn't know what to do. Then he stopped coming home." She put the handkerchief down on the table and looked directly at Mac, as if challenging him to say something different.

"Did you hear from him at all?" Mac said quietly, his eyes fixed onto the woman's, reading what was in them, searching for clues.

She nodded. "He phoned a couple of times to say he was okay and staying with friends. Six weeks after his last call they found his body. Strangled." She looked away, unable to make eye contact.

"Have you heard from Shoshanna since?" Stella said, calling Joel's mother to look at her and focus in the present.

Mrs Jones nodded. "She came around the day before the funeral. I remember she looked dreadful, as if she hadn't slept for days. I asked her if she was okay and she just nodded, didn't say very much. Her visit seemed pointless."

"Did you know that a lecturer at the college, David Rostow, had been having an affair with her?" Stella said, her tone as gentle as she could make it without the woman feeling as if she was being patronised.

Silence fell about the room, a dark silence. Mrs Jones said nothing, looking at the white desk, not wanting to speak.

"Mrs Jones, if you know anything that may help us to catch your son's killer then please tell us," Stella said, fracturing the silence.

Eyes as back as coal looked at them, arms folded across her chest. Body armour. "Shoshie stayed with us plenty, but she and Joel always had separate rooms – at her request. When Joel told me about Rostow I was shocked. She'd been adamant about no sex before marriage." She fell silent, thinking about what else to tell them. Mac waited. With some people patience was all that was required; they simply needed to find the correct words to pass what they wanted along.

"Before they spilt up they'd spoken about Rostow. Joel thought he was a nice enough guy, but distrusted him. Shoshie thought he was wonderful as he'd been giving her extra tutoring in his area of expertise," she said the words with bitterness.

"Did either of them ever mention a girl with blonde hair; her name may begin with R?" Stella said, her expression feigning uncertainty well.

Mrs Jones nodded. "Rachael. That was one of the friends. When Joel last phoned he said he was well and staying at Rachael's. When I asked who Rachael was he was vague. I heard her in the background – at least I assumed it was her – telling him to hurry. I often thought she was worried about what he was saying." She stood up, tucking the handkerchief into her purse and giving Mac a wan smile. "I have to go. My daughter needs picking up from her piano lesson."

They watched her leave, the silence in the room her gift to them as both sat, thoughts taking the place of words. Mac became lost in the puzzle, only disturbed when Stella turned to him suddenly. "What do we have on Rachael McKinsey?"

"Other than that she had a conviction for shoplifting in '99, nothing. She's 28 and was of no fixed address at the time," Mac said. "Why? You thinking along the lines of the Manson murders – Rachael McKinsey as a Linda Kasabian figure?" It was almost a joke, only one with a serious knife-point to it.

Stella shrugged. "You're thinking along the lines of cults – which, I agree, is seemingly plausible. If Rostow is a Manson type figure then it's likely he'll have others out to do his dirty work. But," she paused, "we have no evidence."

"We have no Rachael McKinsey either," Mac said. "But we do have a crime scene." He referred to Paul Murphy's home, where Danny and Hawkes now were, sifting through whatever they could find. "And Sid's autopsying Diane Murphy as we speak."

"Maybe we should go see what they've found at the house?" Stella said. "Is Lindsay making contact with the parents and friends of the other missing persons?"

Mac nodded, standing, moving his limbs slightly after being sat so long. "I've told her to contact us if anything interesting comes up." Stella stood too, making her way to the door. "We need a break with this case and soon."

-&-

Lindsay sat back and looked at the most recent page of handwritten notes, pushing aside any personal feelings for the hundredth time that morning. She would have word processed while she was on the phone but the sound of keys being tapped in the background was often off-putting to those she was speaking to. Her eyes glanced down the neatly written words. Grown distant… Moody… finished with boyfriend… become a different person. All of the descriptions she had received bore similar traits. None of the relatives or friends of the seven missing persons had heard from them within the past twelve weeks, all of them, apart from Jack Causier's parents, were still putting funds into their bank accounts. And money was still being withdrawn.

She glanced out of the window at the day too dull to have shadows. The sky was without blue, a collage of clouds blocking the sun. She paid little attention to the weather unless it impeded her work, or it happened to rain when she least wanted it to, but today the lack of light seemed portentous. She recalled a notice one of her colleagues back in Bozeman had had by his workstation –"Due to lack of funding, the light at the end of the tunnel has been switched off" – it resonated within her: Murphy hadn't been apprehended, they had no knowledge of Rachael McKinsey's whereabouts, and nothing solid to give weight to any theories. Her mind began to sort through the drabbles of information that had been given to her; most of the conversations she had had over the course of the past three hours had been lengthy, the parents and friends clinging onto the lifeline her call had thrown them. Snippets of the dialogue began to reel around, odd words from one conversation resonating in another, making connections.

And then it clicked. She saw the connection.

"Mac," she said as a voice broke the ringing. "I think I know how they were targeted."

-&-

"Max," the voice was quiet but pleading. He turned over and looked at Rachael, her blue eyes wide open, sleep not touching her. "I can't sleep."

He sighed. He was tired and had an essay that would have to be done tomorrow otherwise he would miss the deadline and fail the module. "You're insatiable, but it's ten in the morning and I really need to sleep for a couple of hours."

"Why?" she said, on top of him in one swift movement. "You're doing well. Your body will become used to getting less sleep and you'll have more time to live your life, instead of wasting it with your eyes closed."

He laughed, his throat dry, and shifted so her weight moved back onto the bed. "Rach, I don't buy this crap, I'm sorry. Maybe you just need less sleep than me."

She smiled, her whole face lighting up the room. "It isn't that. I've told you – there are loads of my friends who have managed to cut down the sleep they need. You said you weren't sleeping well when I met you. Who says there is such a thing as sleeping well? We have it drilled into us that we need so much sleep a night – that's not true. You just need to break your habits."

He felt her hand slipping down his chest and his body responded. His eyes were dry with tiredness and he as if his head was full of cotton wool. It had been almost forty eight hours since he had slept, since he had met her in a bar. "Rachael," he said, impatience growing slightly. "I don't give a fuck what your friends do, or these mad ideas you have about not sleeping and sleep being close to death and all that crap. I have a term paper due in less than twenty-four hours and I haven't even started. If I don't do it, I fail and my father cuts my allowance. I need sleep. Then you can tell me how to stay awake and get this paper done on time." He turned over abruptly, her hand automatically leaving him. He had been blunt, he knew, but it seemed like the only way of managing to get some sleep.

Max paid no attention as she got out of the bed, letting his eyes close. He hoped she would go home, or even better, move onto someone else. However pretty she was he really did need a little more calmness around him. A little more serenity. Sleep began to fall on him, taking him into its lair and he gave himself up to it willingly. Rachael's presence in the room became irrelevant; he could sleep anywhere if he was tired. He moved onto his front, his back exposed to the warmth of the room, the light from the window blocked out by the thick curtains.

Then a different sort of sleep began to consume him. The one Rachael had warned him about, the sleep that sought its victims and introduced them to someone else, its twin, Thanatos.

Death.

_Please review – let me know what you think of it so far!_


	11. Chapter 11 The Sun Would Have Rose Today

_A/N: Thank you to those people who have reviewed. I love to know what you think, even if it's bad. All reviews are replied to (although it has taken a while recently). _

_Thank you to Lily Moonlight for the beta._

Chapter 11 – The Sun Would Have Rose

By noon, the sky had cleared of the clouds and light had managed to burn its way through onto D'Agostino Hall, letting it cast its shadows over the surrounding greenery. Flack stood in the near-empty corridors waiting for Susan Hails, the college's Student Support Service manager to emerge from her office. He hadn't been invited into her office, which narked him, given that he hadn't actually sat down since seven-thirty that morning when he had enjoyed a rushed black coffee with Jess. His mind briefly wandered into its gallery of images, finding one of his girlfriend wrapped in the white sheets of his bed. The vision softened him, and his tongue was not as sharp as it might have been when Mrs Hails emerged from the office bearing a list of names, contact details and a concerned look upon her face.

"Is this really necessary?" she said, her eyes pensive. Her words were not sharp or accusatory, simply disappointed and worried.

"I don't do anything that isn't necessary," he said, his hands in his pockets, the image of Jess now a million miles away from his mind.

She gestured to a door with a couple of comfy looking chairs outside. "Let's go in there. I'd like to talk you through these names."

He nodded, hoping that there were similar chairs inside of the room. "I don't suppose you have any coffee?" he said.

She shot him an almost motherly look. "Mama not sending to off to work properly? I think I have donuts too – Krispy Kreme."

"My day just got a whole lot better," he said as she unlocked the door and ushered him through into a small room.

"I'll be back in a minute," she said. "Make yourself comfortable. This is one of our counselling rooms so it should be a nice place for you to relax." She disappeared, leaving him to look around the room which consisted of an almost-new couch, bookcase full of self-help tomes and a couple of unmatching chairs. He sat in one of the chairs, casting his eyes about the walls. Pictures of various aspects of nature were hung in frames about the plainly painted walls. A stereo was tucked onto a shelf in one corner, its plug hanging down. The room reminded him of the one the precinct shrink used and the shudder that ran down his spine reminded him of his father – it seemed that he had inherited his dislike of anything medical from him.

"Coffee. Black with two sugars," Mrs Hails said as she pushed the door open. Flack stood and reached over, holding it for her as she entered, drinks and donuts on a brightly coloured tray.

"How did you know?" he said as he sat back down.

"You're not the only one with detective skills, Detective," she smiled. "I've been reading people for nearly twenty years. You would have coffee with milk, but you probably think that's too fussy, so you dump a load of sugar in instead. Correct?"

He laughed and nodded, picking up the large mug of black liquid. He tasted it. Asbestos mouth. Just like his dad.

"You were also peeved I didn't invite you into the office," she added cream to her own cup, not looking at him. "I have a very upset student in there and your presence would not have helped. Besides, this is probably the more appropriate place to discuss this situation."

He put the mug down, half empty. "I need to know if you or your counsellors keep records on the students they counsel," he said. He liked this woman. She didn't see him as a threat, she wasn't defensive. Simply pleasant. The world could do with more people like her.

Mrs Hails shook her head. "It's all done in strictest confidence. No paper trail is made on specific students. They're usually given a number which is jotted down when the initial meeting is held or call is made. The counsellor will obviously know the identities of the students that he or she meets, but they are never identified to anyone else."

Flack had thought as much. But there was still the possibility that Mrs Hails would recognise some of the names or pictures of the missing persons. "Would you mind having a look through this list," he pulled the sheet of paper from his inside pocket and unfolded it, passing it to her. "The five names you see are all students at the College of Law who have gone missing in the past two years. All of them received counselling here at some point shortly before their disappearance." It had been Lindsay who had made the connection. All of the missing persons had reported feeling depressed, unable to sleep and were having issues with their course. Whether they all had the same counsellor was another matter completely, but it seemed like more than a coincidence.

Susan Hails looked down the list of names and studied the black and white photos carefully. She looked up, her expression one of careful consideration. "What is it that you want me to tell you, Detective Flack?" she said, her voice level and unagitated.

"Did any of these people, to your knowledge, have the same counsellor?" He wondered whether or not she would tell him.

"You think there's a connection between their disappearance and coming here?" She sounded him out, wanting to be sure that she was going to give out information for the right purposes.

He nodded. That was exactly what he wanted. Plus a name.

Mrs Hails shook her head. "They saw different people. This I know for sure. I myself dealt with Jennifer and Jackie. Steven Reid saw Damon. The three were regulars here for quite sometime, which is why I remember them." She looked at him, passing back the paper. Her demeanour was calm and collected; there was nothing rushed about her and he wondered if she would ever considering leaving the college and transferring to the Police Department as their ears-in-residence. She certainly seemed more suited to the job than Doctor Thomas. "There is a link though."

The sentence made his heart begin to pound rapidly, adrenaline pumping into his blood. There were time in a case when you knew you were about to find the key to it and unlock the room where all secrets were held.

"The three names I've mentioned all used to come here on a Tuesday night. We even joked about it being our Tuesday night club," she paused, looking mildly guilty. "We've had a young woman on reception every Tuesday night since 2006. She's also done Thursdays and Fridays too – we run drop-in on a Friday. She signed people in and organised our case files, so she would have had access to information and would have been able to associate names with the case numbers."

He let her speak without interrupting but he needed a name. Large green eyes looked at him nervously.

"I wouldn't be sharing information like this, Detective, if I didn't have concerns. But this girl has been a little… odd, shall we say, since she started. Nothing that we could address, but, well, strange," she paused, biting her bottom lip. "You need her name. It's Aneka Lebowitz."

He knew the name. She had been the girl on reception the night Goddard's body was discovered in the elevator. "Thank…" Flack felt his cell begin to vibrate in his inside pocket. He pulled it out and looked at the number. Angell. "Thank you," he finished his sentence and followed Susan Hails out of the room, watching as she walked down the corridor back to the office where he hadn't been allowed in.

Angell's voice sounded on the other end of the line. "Don, we got a heads up on the whereabouts of Paul Murphy," she said, her tone business like and to the point. She gave him the address.

"I'll see you there," he said, the sound of his footsteps echoing as he began to run down the corridor.

-&-

Danny checked his cell, hoping to see a message from Lindsay. Relations between them were improving, which was good. She was starting to talk to him on a personal level, which was good too. However, she was still trying to keep some sort of distance between them, which was not good. He put the phone away and sighed. No communication from her, or anyone else.

He crouched down and pulled open the bottom drawer of the desk, becoming lost in his job. It was empty. The next two drawers up were full of papers and folders, all neatly sorted into various house accounts. Carefully, he began to test for latent prints. Fine black powder that was magnetically sensitive was deposited on to the light wood handle. The powder then adhered to the moisture and oils left behind by the friction ridges of the fingers. Several prints became visible. Danny took the transparent tape from his kit and, with steady hand, layered it over the print before pulling it gently off and attaching it to a card. There were three clear prints in total and one partial. He imagined that they would come back to the owners of the house, but there was always the chance that someone else had been there to clear what ever was in the drawer.

His cell began to vibrate, and he stood up abruptly in order to take his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans. As he did he knocked over the pot of fine black powder with the brush still in it, which rolled a few inches away along the wooden floor.

"Messer," he said, taking the call and saving the curses till later.

"It's Lindsay," his heart began to pound at the sound of her voice. "I'm using a spare phone – mine's in my locker."

"You okay?" he said, casting his eyes over the black spillage.

"I'm fine. Listen – I'm sorry about this morning. Coffee would be good sometime…" he heard her continue speaking, but his concentration was pulled to the black powder, her voice just a blur in the background. He shifted his feet to the right, away from the desk, then squatted down.

"Danny, are you still there?" her voice was impatiently concerned.

"Yeah… I'm sorry, Linds… I think I've found something – I'll call you back…" he hung up, completely engrossed in the floorboard whose nails were missing, and the larger gap between it and its neighbour.

Placing his cell on top of his kit, he slid his fingers in to the gap and began to prise the floorboard out of its place. It was only short. At some point it had been cut in half, the one long board made into two. It left its place without argument, lifting up to expose what should have been a five or six inch gap between the floor and ceiling, enough room to run wires and pipes.

But the gap wasn't empty. And it was more than just wires and pipes filling it up.

"Hawkes!" he shouted. A faint voice responded. "Come and see this!"

-&-

La Guardia airport was not the most serene of places to be. It bubbled with the rush of people who were almost-late; its atmosphere filled with distaste and pleasure as people left on business or were retuning back home. The smells of mass produced coffee and fast food filtered through the air, tormenting Flack's senses. He dug his hands deeper into his pockets as if trying to avoid temptation, looking about him, seeking his target.

She was stood where she said she'd be; next to a Starbucks, holding a brown paper bag and a take-out cup, but his eyes were more concerned with her rather than the food. Which, he knew, said a lot about his growing feelings.

"Jess," he said as his long stride covered the ground between them quickly. "Where's Mac?"

She held out the coffee and paper bag. He took the bag first and opened it, finding a Panini filled with cheese, chorizo and tomato. "He's on his way. I got him as he was leaving the lab to go to the Murphy's house. The last I heard he was stuck in traffic on the 495. There's been an RTA with a couple of casualties and nothing's moving. I'm surprised you got here so fast."

He chewed quickly. "It helps being a homeboy. Thanks for this, Jess," he said, taking another bite.

She nodded, accepting his thanks without needing an encore. Previous girlfriends had always wanted a standing ovation for doing anything unprompted. Girlfriend. He smiled without being able to stop. She raised her eyebrows and looked around, now spotting familiar faces in the crowds, stationed at various points.

"You've set this thing up already?" he said. "Impressive."

"Well, hey," she said, a note of humour in her tone. "I learned from the best." She elbowed him playfully, the touch brief, but there. "We've covered the exits, and I've got six men moving around this concourse. Paul Murphy has been scheduled to travel on three separate flights, all booked yesterday morning. Two are with American Airlines – one to Chicago O'Hare at 14.37 and one to Miami at 14.46. The third is with American Eagle to Des Moines, leaving at 14.58. So far Murphy has not checked in. desk staff have been notified and obviously airport security are on alert."

"So we wait," Flack said. "And hopefully he will turn up like the not-so-bad penny. How anonymous was the tip-off?"

Angell rolled her eyes. "Adam had a phone call – direct line rather than through reception. The person on the other end spoke for less than twenty seconds, gave a description of the car Murphy had escaped in and that he was booked on three flights leaving LaGuardia, Concourse C, this afternoon. The caller hung up before poor Adam even had a chance to ask any questions," she sighed deeply. "This could be a massive red herring." Her eyes were serious and her posture was stiff. Somebody could be playing games, wasting their time while someone else was potentially losing their life.

"Jess, with five murders, six missing people and one suicide, if something bites, you reel it in. Even red herrings can be covered in evidence. What time was the call?"

"One pm. All systems were go at one twenty. Most of the cops are from 115th. Their chief wasn't too happy as they're down with this bug too, but he didn't argue." Her eyes were continually watching the passers-by, although she was managing to give the impression of someone who was just meeting her friend for a late lunch. Flack polished off the remainder of the Panini and stepped a few metres over to where there was a bench, Jess following him and they sat down. The PA system made a final call for a Mr and Mrs Jacobsen, travelling to Nashville, at the same time Jess' cell rang. She took it, answering several times in the affirmative.

"The chief says Paul Murphy hasn't checked in to any of his flights," Jess said. "He's getting impatient." Her eyes told him what she thought of 115th's chief right now.

"Any possible sighting?" Flack said, standing.

She shook her head. "I vote we go take a look round." He nodded his agreement.

He dropped the empty coffee cup and paper bag in a trash can as they left the melee of the check-in desks and went into the maze-like corridors of what made up the airport. On the surface of it, there weren't many places for Murphy to hide. Every where were shops or cafés. Security was high and anyone acting suspiciously would be checked out immediately, Flack didn't doubt it. He had to have faith, otherwise he'd never sleep.

Beyond where the public were allowed to tread were offices and rooms which were occasionally empty, storerooms and restrooms which were off limits to anyone but staff. He'd made two arrests at LaGuardia before now; one as a rookie cop, when a teenager who was selling crack cocaine tried to make a bolt for it. The second was a woman attempting to abduct a half-day old baby from nearby Flushing Hospital. Both had involved going back-stage and by now he felt like he'd lived a life chasing around the various corridors and dead-ends.

They had looked down two separate sections by the time the PA system was calling for Mr Paul Murphy to check in. The third section was dimly lit, rarely used. They passed two janitors' cupboards before Jess stopped and looked behind her.

"That door looked odd," she said, the air thick, as if waiting for them to discover something.

Flack began to retrace his steps, reaching the door she had referred to. The lock had been tampered with, the handle slightly tilted as three of the screws had been removed.

"Someone's tried to get in here and failed," he said. "I'll let Mac know. It might be worth checking for prints." He pulled out his cell. As he hit the speed dial for Mac he heard a scream. Without speaking both he and Angell set off down the corridor, away from the door they had been looking at towards a room used for unclaimed luggage.

The door was ajar and Angell pushed it open, weapon in hand. Had Flack been anything but a homicide detective he would have been disturbed at the picture in front of him; now it just felt like another day at the office. A woman was crouched on the floor, her back to the door, an open suitcase in front of her. In it lay the body of Paul Murphy, his knees to his chest, his body like stone in rigour.

Angell began to call Mac, her voice echoing around the still room. The woman had begun to sob, her hands shaking. Flack knelt down next to her, her face obscured by her hair, long and thick and black.

"Do you know him?" Flack asked her. The woman shook her head. "You opened the case just now?"

She nodded, her sobs becoming controlled. "Sorry, it was the shock," she turned to him and he saw that she was little more than a young girl, probably about twenty. "I came to bring this case – it's been going round the carousel for twenty-four hours – and the door was open. This case was in the way and was a bit undone. I thought I saw a finger poking out, so I checked it thinking one of the guys was playing a joke, hiding in it…" she looked up at him with eyes as black as ink. "I shouldn't have checked. I hadn't seen the case before – it could have had anything in it – a bomb… anything."

"What's your name?" he said, his voice calm, trying to be reassuring.

"Jaslene Velasquez," she said, passing him her ID. "I do this to help me get through college."

His ears pricked up, wondering if he was about to be bitten by yet another coincidence. "Which college?"

"LaGuardia Community College – I'm studying Childhood Education," she gave him a tear-filled smile.

Flack heard footsteps running down the corridor. He turned around to see Mac, followed by the chief, John Lavine, who looked slightly more than out of breath. Jaslene's face was filled once more with terror. "It wasn't me," Flack heard her say. "I don't know who he is…"

"Miss Velasquez," Flack said. "No one's accusing you of anything. We just need to ask you to come down to the station and give some details. Then we'll get you home."

She stood on shaky legs, allowing Angell to escort her out of the room and into the hands of another of the female officers who had been called to the airport.

"This is your man?" Lavine said, looking down at the body lying in one half of the case.

Flack nodded. "Not in the state we were expecting." He looked at Mac and shrugged. "Fancy a short break to Miami, Mac?"

Mac looked up at him, puzzled.

"Well he's not going anywhere is he? Other than the morgue."

-&-

Had he been alive, Maxwell Wilson III would have heard the sirens as they past the room where he was waiting. He would have heard the rain as it burst from the clouds, pattering down on the sidewalks outside and bouncing off the windows. He would have seen cars dart passed as they went about their business; in one of them, Detectives Angell and Flack, making their way back from LaGuardia airport. He would have smelt the pizza sent to the dorm room next door and probably knocked, hoping to share some. He would have heard his cell phone ring – his father, asking why he hadn't been in contact.

As it were, Maxwell Wilson III observed none of these things. But Rachael McKinsey did.

_Please review – especially any lurkers… de lurk!!_


	12. Chapter 12 Darkening

Chapter 12 –

_A/N It's taken some time to get this up, even though it's been the holidays. I've been stuck for inspiration recently, but hopefully this fic will be finished sooner rather than later. Hope this chapters okay and I apologise in advance for typos!_

_Thank you for all the reviews._

Chapter 12 – Darkening

On an average day approximately 1,800 thunderstorms occur, each a combination of humidity and heat, warm air rising and then cooling again, and then the air moving violently, causing water droplets and ice to knock against each other with charged electrons falling off the latter.

These electrons then build up a static electrical charge, the energy producing thunder and lightning, a mesmerising display of light and sound that illuminates the sky, resulting in both damage and awe. No thunderstorm is ever safe.

Stella knew that people could create thunderstorms. She knew that when certain people met, they could produce such an electrical charge they damaged whatever they came into contact with. That was what he knew was happening now as she looked into the crammed space that Danny had discovered under the floorboards. She reached down with a gloved hand and pulled up a bundle of notes, one of several piles of cash.

"Used notes," she said to Danny, who was watching intently. "And," she shone her flashlight further along. "Two guns and what looks like a knife."

"This puts Murphy even more in the picture now," Danny said. "Not that he hadn't implicated himself already."

"Mac hasn't been in touch?" Stella said with some surprise as she began to bag up the cash for analysis back up the lab. The weapons were only just visible and would require another floorboard being lifted in order to reach them.

"Not heard from him since he said he was on his way here," Danny said, pulling more evidence bags from his kit and passing them to Stella. "Then you turned up so I just assumed Mac was on his way to another crime scene."

Stella nodded. In the heat of what was happening it wasn't surprising that communication would go AWOL at some point. "I had a call from Mac as I parked up. He's at LaGuardia. Adam had a call an hour or so ago that Paul Murphy was booked onto three separate flights. Flack and Angell and whoever else went there and found Murphy's body in a suitcase in the unclaimed office. Mac's there now. He was stuck in traffic and didn't get there until the body was found."

Danny nodded, his brain clearly working through the events. "Bet Mac was pissed with that!" he said. "So Murphy's clearly not the king chief, which leaves us with the question 'who is'?"

"We've got David Rostow…" Stella began.

"Only on Murphy's say so. The whole reason Rostow was brought into this is because Murphy IDed him in a coffee shop," Danny said.

Stella's camera clicked, taking more pictures of the space's content. "He was recognised by one of the girls in their too. That's how Murphy got caught out lying."

"So what if Rostow figured Murphy was a liability and whacked him off. This isn't proving to be some small town money ciphering job here, Stell, the body count's now up to five and we don't have anyone in custody. Any luck finding the girl?" Danny said.

"She's well and truly off the grid. Adam's been trying to search for her all day. I left him muttering something about social networking sites – I swear he's becoming surgically attached to the computer," Stella said, reaching an arm under the next floorboard and pulling out another wad of cash.

Danny laughed, taking a screwdriver he'd found and using it to help prise up the next floorboard, hopefully giving them easy access to the rest of the stash. "What about the girlfriend of one of the vic's?"

"Shoshanna Sullivan?" Stella said as she ignored a spider that ran over her hand. "We've had uniform trying to locate her, but they've found nothing. Her dorm room is pretty much empty, her parents haven't heard from her in about three days – although that doesn't concern them as she's been out of touch for longer – and her last exam was over a week ago, so she's not expected to turn up at college."

"No part-time job? College is an expensive thing," Danny said, looking at the remainder of the cash.

Stella shook her head. "No need. Mommy and Daddy are rich enough to let their little girl avoid such life-experiences."

"The bitter tone to your voice tells me you had plenty of those life-experiences," Danny said, glad of something that had some humour to it.

Stella laughed wryly. "I worked in bars. I mix a mean Cosmopolitan."

"No Sex on the Beach then?"

"I never had time." She knew her voice lacked the humour it should have contained. College had not been easy. For some, it had been about partying, meeting people and doing a bit of studying on the side. For Stella, it had been about hard work to get the best grades and working more or less full time – in vacations double full time – to try and make ends meet. She'd met people, and had one or two relationships along the way and yes; there had been the times she had partied until dawn. But not everything in her garden had been rosy, certainly not the way it had been for some of their missing persons. "And New York doesn't have a beach."

Danny laughed at the after thought and then let the topic drop as the moved out the rest of the money and weapons.

"The guns couldn't have been the one that shot Goddard," Stella said. "These are almost out of the ark." She stood up and stretched, the wooden floor had not been kind to her knees. "Get these back to the lab and see what they show. If we're lucky, we'll be able to trace back the numbers on the bills."

"Which will give Adam something else to do on his computer," Danny said. "If Facebook's not eaten him by now."

Footsteps pounded along the corridor and into the study, ones Stella recognised as belonging to Hawkes. He was holding something small in his hand; small, and made of plastic.

"What you got?" Stella said, knowing the look on Hawkes' face to mean he'd found something interesting.

"I was just about to call it quits when I found this," he stepped closer and showed them what he had in his hand. "David Rostow's credit card."

Stella raised her eyebrows. "And where there's a credit card there must be a billing address."

Hawkes nodded. "And, hopefully, where there's a billing address there will be some way to find David Rostow."

-&-

Mac watched as Sid performed his rituals with the body of Paul Murphy. He was just finishing stitching the Y-incision; small, neat stitches, unlike the clumsy, careless ones that he had seem some pathologists make in his time. For Sid – and Hawkes and Peyton – attention still needed to be given to all details, even though there would never be any scarring.

"In summary," Sid said, looking up and pulling off his latex gloves. "He was shot in the back of the neck. The bullet remains this time and no, there is no tattooed number."

"Poisoning?" Mac said.

Sid shook his head. "That seems to be reserved for a particular type of person. Now, was Murphy a victim or a perp turned victim?"

"I'd say he was the latter, Sid. Unfortunately, we don't have anyone in a position to confirm. All we know is he was planning to escape. The best person to tell us about that is his wife, who is also dead," Mac said, his voice hard, not showing the frustration he felt.

Sid nodded. "I did her autopsy earlier, before her husband arrived on my table. Beautiful woman, but held together with an awful lot of surgery. Gastric bands, breast implants, cheek implants… Poor Sam had his illusions shattered completely!" Sid looked at his morgue assistant whom Mac thought was looking a little under the weather. He wondered if Sam was coming down with the virus that had decimated their workforce over the past few days.

"I don't suppose she had a tattoo of any kind?" Mac said.

Sid shook his head. "I doubt she would have done anything that would have made her body less that what she saw as perfect. One interesting thing though; she had herpes simplex type 2, and was clearly showing signs of it."

"Murphy? You would assume that if they were married he would have contracted the virus also," Mac said, wondering why Sid was finding this so curious. He wasn't surprised that an actress such as Diana Merchant had contracted an STD. At the peak of her career she had been on the arm of every pin up male soap star he could name. Or rather, who Stella could name.

"Paul Murphy shows no symptoms of the virus," Sid said. "Which, is not unusual if he's between outbreaks. I've sent his bloods to be screen for the virus, as well as the usual things." He looked up at Mac. "Do you know how long the Murphys have been married for?"

Mac shook his head.

"Less than two years. Previously Diana Merchant was in a relationship with Luke Carter, " Sid's eyes twinkled. "Whom I very much doubt you've ever heard of. Carter was much younger than her. They were in the same soap – Nights of Our Lives – it was a spin off that didn't live very long. He had a drug habit, and she, probably wanting to keep him, paid his various debts with dealers and bail a couple of times. She split from him when she reached the verge of bankruptcy. Six months later she married Murphy. The wedding photographs were sold to OK! Magazine," Sid's eyes seemed glazed over as if he was recalling those very pictures. Mac was mildly amused. "Why would someone like Diana Merchant marry a professor of Law, who isn't a celebrity, isn't particularly attractive and can't in any way further her career?"

"Maybe they fell in love," Mac said.

Sid shook his head. "For people like Diana Merchant, love isn't in the equation. My guess is she was after money. And if you're wondering, the reason I happen to know all that, it occurred at the same time my wife was recuperating from a hysterectomy. She needed something to fill her days and celebrity was just the object."

Mac looked at him quizzically.

"One has to take an interest in one's spouse," Sid said with a knowing smile. He looked to the body laid out on the metal table, his eyes scanning the pale skin, its whiteness marred by signs of the post-mortem, the stitches black spiders of unnatural death.

"Any thoughts on the bullet?" Mac asked, letting the conversation about celebrity drop.

Sid shook his head. "That's up to ballistics. Small calibre, and his was shot at close range. The amount of GSR around the skin suggests that the barrel was almost certainly pressed up to the skin. I should have my reports done on both Diana Merchant and her husband done in the next hour. There really isn't a great deal to write, and Sam has already begun Diana's," Sid gestured to the morgue assistant who was absorbed in what he was keying into the computer. His demeanour was different than usual. The bright enthusiasm that hung about him had dwindled down to a worried, shocked darkness.

"Is Sam okay?" Mac asked in an undertone, the clanging of another pathologist reducing the chances of Sam overhearing him.

Sid shrugged. "He seemed to have quite a shock when he saw Diana Merchant. Your first celebrity can be a bit strange."

Mac nodded. Sid was probably right.

-&-

"I've got smudged fingerprints," Danny said, pushing his glasses further up him nose. He knew when he bought them that they weren't the right pair for him; too big, too irritating. What was even more irritating was that a good chunk of this month's salary would now have to be spent on buying a new pair. There was always the option of laser surgery of course; but that involved being awake while people fiddled with your eyes, something he did not wish to endure.

"How smudged?" Flack said. "As in not smudged enough to be able to identify them, or as in too smudged to do jack-shit with them?"

"You been getting much sleep recently, Flack?" Danny said, eyeing his colleague and friend. "Your temper is shorter than the chairs at a little people's convention."

"You jealous, Messer?" Flack said.

Danny chuckled. He guessed he was. No Lindsay, no Rikki; life was somewhat lonely in the evenings at chez Messer. "So why am I dusting the door of a room that hasn't been opened?"

"Note the handle and the missing screws – or have too many nights without the company of a good woman slowly turning you blind?" Flack said, crouching down and looking at where the screws had been removed from. "This is too much of a coincidence for my liking. Fifteen metres down the corridor we have a room with a body dump."

"You wondering if someone got the wrong room to begin with?"

Flack nodded. "According to Miss Velasquez this used to be the left luggage room. Then policy changed and they didn't need as big a space so they switched rooms to one that was closer to the carousels. The new room's nearly always locked – today being the execption."

"Any sign of tampering on that door?" Danny said. Hawkes was there at present combing through the left luggage room. Stella had taken the money back to the lab after Mac had called Danny and Hawkes out to LaGuardia.

"Nothing of note. Velasquez thinks it may have been unlocked as there were three of them on duty. The boss – John Waters – was doing his paperwork in the office just off the luggage collection zone. He'd forgotten his keys so asked Velasquez and Richard Tommero to leave the room unlocked. Easy entry for our body dumper," Flack said as Danny stood up. He had seen all he needed to of the lock.

"Any CCTV?" Danny said.

"Not down this corridor. There's a camera over the exit but it's not been working properly for about eighteen months. Today's been one of those days when it's been on and off sporadically. The time frame we have just shows black snow on film," Flack said. "These are clever people, Danny."

"You say people. You convinced it's a group?" Danny said as they began to walk back up the corridor to rejoin Hawkes.

"I'm with Mac on this. I think it's a cult and we're up against more than one person. The MOs are all over the place for a start. I don't doubt we're dealing with psychopaths – I just think we've got more than one," Flack looked serious.

"We've dealt with psychos before, Flack," Danny said, unused to Flack's more serious side.

"But none like this. The death of Paul Murphy and his body found in a suitcase will be plastered over the evening editions of every paper. That's six bodies – not counting Joel Jones. The city's going descend into panic," Flack said, his face a thunderstorm in the making.

"The victims are all connected though," Danny said. "This isn't someone targeting random people. We have a link between all of them." They reached the left luggage room. Hawkes was crouched down, scraping something into an evidence bag and looking doubtful. "Nothing?"

"Nothing," Hawkes echoed. "Big fat nothing everywhere. We have to get a break on this soon. Find David Rostow or Rachael McKinsey, or where ever it is they hang out."

"We need something soon," Flack said. "Otherwise we'll have the Feds involved."

-&-

"You shouldn't have killed him, Rachael," the man said. If he'd been able to, he'd have been pacing up and down the room. Life had given him the short straw, however, and he was now wheelchair bound. It wasn't as much of a hindrance as he'd thought it would be, in fact members of his group seemed to have more respect for him now than ever before. Including Rachael. Most of the time.

"If I had let him live he may have worked out what we were after," she said, her eyes glinting dangerously. "No one's come as close as he has with his questions. For all we know he could have been some undercover stooge."

Rostow shook his head. "He was who he said he was. His parents are multi millionaires and we could have done with the cash after Diana's recent spending spree."

"She's dead now, anyway, and not a moment too soon," Rachael said, smiling. Rostow looked at her warily. Her boundaries were widening.

"It needs to stop. The cop and the girl, Maxwell. It finishes here," he said.

She turned to him, like a petulant child. "But what about what you've done. Goddard, Raimo and now Paul? Don't they count?"

"That was survival," he turned from her, knowing what her next actions would be.

_A bit of FA fluff may help the next chapter…_

_Please review._


	13. Chapter 13 Shadows Flicker

_It's been a long time, and for that reason, please accept my apologies if I have contradicted myself any. I have tried to make sure I've been consistent - but I might have missed small details! No spoilers for the current season! And I don't own any of the characters etc etc, but I do own the typos!! Swearing and some adult themes ahoy! but not enough to make it M in my opinion (rated 15!!)_

_Please review!!_

**Chapter 13 **

**Shadows Flicker**

The city always stayed awake, a chosen insomnia perpetuating through its every night. Lindsay looked out of her bedroom window at the lights dancing on every street, every avenue and wished for the darkness of Montana. Back home there was a sense of day and night. People slept. Even as a teenager, they had been home and in bed by one am at the latest. But even in Montana there had been evil. Sleep did not stop the killers and rapists. She drew the heavy blackout curtains, blocking out the neon lights and flashing bulbs, and slid into bed trying to ignore a cry of passion which permeated the wall from her next door neighbour. She pulled the blankets over her head and closed her eyes, willing sleep, with its numbing powers, to arrive soon.

-&-

Flack sat in Brian Goddard's office chair and stared at the immaculately clean desk. He had reached a dead end. No one was talking because no one had anything to say; Brian Goddard was a nice man with only one enemy, David Rostow. There were no leads on David Rostow – the credit card that had been found had been cancelled eighteen months ago; the billing address had been for a house owned by Rostow's ex-wife in Middleton, Greater Manchester, England – although it might have been Mars for all the relevance it had. Two officers had spent the day trying to track down the money withdrawals from the accounts belonging to those people listed as missing and that had proved to be another dead end; the money was transferred to another account held by a Swiss back, and they transferred to another in the Channel Islands. By the time Officer Gary Knight had tried to explain it Flack's brain had seized up and he had dropped his BLT sandwich on the floor.

"Aneka Lebowitz wasn't there," Angell announced as she entered the room, her hair loosened from the clip she had put it in that morning. "Roommates haven't seen her since yesterday, think she's staying with a boyfriend and she hasn't turned up for her shift."

Flack spun round on the chair and nodded. "She's spooked."

Angell nodded. "I imagine she's gone to ground. Attendance records show she was about to be booted for not turning up to classes. Us showing up was probably the last straw."

"No ideas on where ground is?" Flack said. "Mac's cult theory is looking increasingly likely. If we can trace Lebovitz then I think we'll find whatever hideout is being used."

Angell looked thoughtful, sitting down on one of the chairs. There were no traces of the crime that had been committed there, although Flack had still been convinced that he was going to find one of Raimo's missing eyes when he had moved the chair away from the desk to sit on it. "We have a cult which is targeting rich, mainly female, students who then disappear but still continue to withdraw money and place it into some complex laundering system. We have an ex-soap star, with major debts, who has committed suicide and her husband – who may not have _technically_ been her husband – has been murdered." She looked directly at Flack, her eyes determined. "Goddard and Raimo knew what was going on."

"I don't disagree with that," Flack said. "But if Goddard was killed to shut him up, why dump his body off at the local NYPD? That doesn't make sense."

"Unless you wanted it to be looked in to," Angell said, a smile creeping up the corners of her mouth. "There are members of cults who want to leave, but cannot do so because of the implications for themselves…"

"So Goddard was brought to the station by someone who wanted out, who knew where the primary crime scene was and was able to move him," Flack finished, looking victorious.

"We just need to find that primary crime scene, which I would bet you a burger to a salad sandwich was staged to look like a suicide," Angell said, standing up and brushing down her jacket. Flack regarded the movements closely.

"Goddard had no trace on him, it was like he'd been vacuumed," he said. "I've known murderers use a lint roller or a clothes brush, but they've never managed to get it completely clean. There's always been something, something to give us a lead."

"But on this there was nothing," Angell said.

Flack stood, pushing the chair back under the desk without thinking about lost eyes and took a step toward the exit. "The only people who can get things that clean are the people with the inside knowledge."

"This is a law school, Flack, there are kids here studying criminal law, they'll be well read on forensics…"

He shook his head as he upped his pace, leaving Goddard's study with Angell close behind him. "Why choose my station? It's not the closest to NYU."

"Mac's reputation…" Angell looked at him blankly, closing the door to the study. The lock clicked. "You think it's someone who works there."

"Why not? They knew when that delivery was going to be made, they would have known how the body would have been dealt with and they would have known how to keep themselves from under suspicion," Flack said, feeling blood circulate faster round his body, pushing adrenaline round his veins and making him feel alive. He loved moments like this, when realisation clicked two pieces of a jigsaw together.

They left Vanderbilt Hall and stepped out into the night, the noise of car engines and voices amplified by the stillness of the air. Flack felt his cell vibrate in his pocket and answered it out before it managed to ring. "Mac?" he greeted, knowing that Mac should have gone off shift several hours ago and also knowing that he should be surprised by the fact that Mac was still there.

"We've got another DB over at the Red Lion Hotel," Mac said.

"We're on our way," Flack replied, about to hang up.

"And Flack," he heard Mac's voice and placed the phone back to his ear. "It's been ID'd as Sam Burras."

"The morgue assistant?" Flack looked at Jess, the din around them becoming almost deafening.

-&-

Rachael sat in an all-night diner across the street from the Red Lion Hotel, sipping a large mocha and watching the fuss as yet another unmarked police car pulled up outside.

She was bored. Bored with the games David was meant to be playing, bored with seducing rich people, bored with not being able to spend their money. She pulled at a tendril of curly brown hair and checked for split ends. None. Helen was a good hairdresser, almost as good as the professional stylist Rachael used to visit back home. She wouldn't be recognised, either by that annoying police detective who had nearly caught her coming out of Goddard's house or by the man she had paid for an hour's use of the honeymoon suite at the Red Lion – a blonde wig had seen to that, as well as a prominent cleavage that Graeme hadn't been able to take his eyes away from.

Sam's job had never been an issue before. Only she'd known about it; helping him keep up his lies to David that he worked at an elementary school, when in fact he was a morgue assistant, but then, she'd been a beneficiary of Sam's wages and inheritance. Rachael sipped the coffee, savouring the taste.

It was her who had recruited Sam; he'd been one of her firsts and David had been pleased with her. Back then she'd been caught up in the dream and passionate about David; she'd been his slave in more ways than one, and then slowly, as his condition worsened, the roles had reversed. She had taken control of the group weeks ago, once David realised that killing had no effect on her.

"If they aren't going to believe in our cause then what use are they to us?" she had said the night before.

"We can ignore them," David had responded, his eyes fixed on her as she slowly undid the buttons of her blouse.

She'd taken a step back, out of his reach, as she'd peeled the material away from her skin, his eyes transfixed by her nakedness. "But this way it's more fun," she'd said, her own fingers caressing her breasts. She had heard him gasp and then reach for the brakes of his wheel chair.

"You don't believe in it, do you?" he'd said, moving closer.

She had turned her back and laughed. "No. I never have. You know that. All this shit about never having to sleep. Those books should be burnt. Maybe the Nazis were right – some stuff shouldn't be read." She felt his hands on her waist, his fingers creeping up her torso. Her own hands captured his and held them there. "You don't believe it either. You just like the money."

"And you just like the power."

She had laughed again and released his fingers, allowing them to move up to her breasts, knowing that he needed her far more than she needed anyone.

Sam had been the same. She had recruited him because of his weakness, and every time she felt he was faltering she would meet him at some run down motel where you could rent a room by the hour. Tonight he'd confessed as she'd suspected, and she knew then that he was surplus to requirements. She'd fucked him first, of course, then held chloroform to his nose and mouth. Once he was completely under her control, she injected him straight into the heart. Phenol. She'd learnt a lot from David. She bleached his body; every day bleach, kept in the grotty bathroom and probably never used and then she'd slipped down the fire exit.

Sam's body would have still been warm when Graeme went up to the room, wanting to charge them extra for staying over an hour. She imagined the sight and smiled, draining the last of her mocha.

Rachael stood up, taking a long look out of the window. A tall dark haired man got out of a car wearing a suit that looked too smart for a detective. He was attractive, a little like Maxwell maybe. Maybe he would be interested in having some fun too.

-&-

Angell glanced across the road and caught sight of a dark haired woman looking at them. It wasn't unusual; so many police cars would attract attention, but something about the woman wasn't quite right. She mentally photographed her before turning back to the motel.

Flack had already gone inside, followed by Sid who had arrived there shortly after them. The tension among the officers and CSI's was thick and palpable, very few words were being said; the severity of what had happened needed no confirmation.

The stairs to the second floor were carpeted in cheap red, the wallpaper peeling away in the corners. The room rate was cheap, and the décor showed. Angell cringed as she looked inside room 12. Sam Burras lay naked on the faded bedspread, his mouth slightly open and his stare fixed at the ceiling. Sid bent over the body, his face rigid with anger. Mac stood silently, watching as the pathologist made his first observations.

"I think he was involved with the cult," Flack said, breaking the silence. "That's how Brian Goddard got to the precinct. He would have known delivery times and have been able to work out how to get the body inside without drawing attention to himself."

"And bringing the body to us was a way of drawing our attention to what was going on," Mac said, his hands in his pockets. He nodded, directing his gaze onto Flack instead of Sam. "A cry for help."

"He's been dead less than an hour," Sid said, his voice quiet. "I would guess that cause of death is through an injection of some sort – there's a needle site in his chest."

"Intracardic phenol injection would be my guess, although you'll have to wait for tox to comfirm," Mac said. "Used by the Nazis in concentration camps when they realised it was the most effective way of disposing of prisoners. Whoever is carrying out these murders is escalating."

"David Rostow?" Angell said. She shook her head. "This is a woman. Why else is he undressed? I would say he was lured here for sex."

Flack nodded. "People certainly don't come here for the décor and comfort," he looked away from the bed, his expression pained, then his eyes turned to Angell and they softened. "You need to go home, Jess, you've been on shift for sixteen hours."

The use of her first name in front of the others jolted her. For an instant all she wanted to do was put her head on his shoulder and weep, and that feeling shocked her. She had never needed protecting, or felt that urge to be part of someone else. She took a deep breath and pushed the image to one side. "So have you," she gave him her best tough look.

He nodded. "I won't be long. I need to brief my men. There will be eyewitnesses – they will have been seen together."

"I'll wait for you in the car," she said, realising that neither Mac nor Sid were reading anything into their familiarity. Flack nodded, and she left the room. Tiredness lurked behind her eyelids and she felt her body calling for sleep. They dealt with shit, she knew, she knew what it would be like before joining the academy, but this seemed different. Two people linked with her had been murdered, and there was no sign of it stopping.

Jess got into the passenger seat and rested her head back, her eyes still watching what was going on around her, angling the rear view mirror so she could see behind. She noticed the brunette; the same woman who had been across the street earlier and for a brief moment they made eye contact before the woman began to move away, almost disappearing into the crowds. Jess scrambled out of the car and walked quickly to catch up with her. The woman waited, smiling as Jess approached.

"Detective Jessica Angell," Jess showed her ID. Did you happen to see a man and woman enter the Red Lion approximately ninety minutes ago?"

The woman shook her head and Jess realised how beautiful she was. "Sorry, I was just wondering what all the commotion was about while I was having a coffee over there," she gestured to the diner facing the motel. Jess wondered why a woman dressed the way she was had stopped at such an eatery. "Just being nosy, I guess."

"You work local?" Jess asked as the woman began to step away. She looked at the oversized bag on her shoulder and wondered what was in it.

"I'm a mystery shopper," the woman said. "I was at the McDonalds about an hour ago, but the coffee there stinks. I needed something to get the taste out of my mouth. I'm sorry, I can't help you." She smiled then looked abruptly toward a yellow cab, gesturing for it to stop.

Jess watched as she got into the taxi, brown curls bobbing up and down with the woman's movements. She didn't smile back.

Flack was waiting at the car when she returned. She briefly filled him in, wondering if her suspicions were due to tiredness and reading too much into things, or if her cop's instinct was simply doing its job.

"Get a picture drawn up or an e-fit done tomorrow," Flack said, starting up the car and then driving away from the still-bustling scene. He slowed as they approached a red light. "Your place or mine?"

She let the question hang in the air momentarily, breathing in the connotations it contained and recalling her need for him.

He glanced at her as the lights changed, looking unsure. "Jess? Or I can just drop you off – I thought…"

"Yours. It's closer," she said.

The car remained quiet for the rest of the journey, although she could tell that Flack wanted to talk. Occasional smatters of words came over the police radio that hadn't been turned off, neither wanting to sever their connection with the events that had occurred, neither knowing what else could possibly unfold.

He pulled up in a space outside his building, a useful find. Generally, Jess knew, he had to park a block or so away, only a short distance, but given how drained she felt, she wasn't sure if she could make it to the elevator.

Flack paced quickly round to her, before she could even close the car door. He shut it for her, then put an arm around her waist and pulled her in to him. "There's no one to be professional in front of," he said, his voice low. "Usually, I come home from days like this and it's a choice of football or hockey replays. Or having a beer with Danny."

"So I'm option number three then," she said, smiling up at him. She saw his grin as he purposely looked away from her and she knew what it meant.

-&-

She watched as he wheeled himself about the large room, barely making eye contact with her when he spoke. Night time peered in at the window and she marvelled at it, how it no longer controlled her body, how it was just her in charge.

"You're special, Jen," he said. "Special to us all."

"We're all special," she responded, taking her gaze away from the window and looking down at her feet. "You taught us that."

"But," he said, moving nearer to her. "You are special because you have been chosen."

She looked into his eyes, eyes like she had never seen before with enough depth to drown in them.

"What do you want me to do?" she said, smiling.

He smiled back, his eyes twinkling.

_Thank you to everone who has reviewed so far - I hope you like this installment - I'll try to get another up soon. Also, thank you to everyone over at LJ who nominated me in the CSI fanfic awards; it meant a lot, especially as I haven't been very prolific for a while!_

Please review x


	14. Chapter 14 Warm as the Night in My Dream

_Thank you to those who reviewed the last chapter - especially after having such a long break from the story being updated. Anyway, I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, I think it lacks humour - but I suppose what's happened needs to be given some down time._

If this chapter was a one shot, I probably would rate it a mild M, to be on the safe side, so please don't be offended and say I didn't give warning.

**Chapter 14**

**Warm as the Night in My Dreams**

The sky was never completely black in New York City. The haze from the lights and the clouds of pollutants created a bubble of unnatural glow, rendering the sky a deep blue instead of the black that seemed more conducive to sleep. Mac wandered around the park, his hands in pockets, content with his own company. Even at night there were people in the park; some going home from a night out or a night shift; others finding night time was their day, given the jobs they had and using their time off to jog or run or simply relax. Most people were in pairs or more, knowing that night's shroud was the perfect cover for crime.

Mac paused at the edge of the lake, watching boats bob up and down on the relatively calm waters. The sight was calming and he knew he needed some form of relaxant. It was rare for him to find peace, although it was becoming less rare recently. However, the general toll of the day that had passed had created a typhoon of thoughts that needed to be allowed to settle, and then to weave their way into something comprehensible. He thought of Sam and how disconcerted he had seemed during the post-mortems of Paul and Diane Murphy. Mac felt he should've realised then that not all was as it appeared. Now it was too late. The key they could have had to the case had gone, and with it the life of a good man, because that was what Sam had been, a good man, whatever strangeness he had become involved in.

He turned his back to the water and looked down the hedged pathway, hearing the sound of heels tapping on the rough surface. There was only one set of footfalls, and they were footfalls he recognised, hearing the determination in them, the tempo swift and purposeful.

"Stella, what are you doing here?" he said, a laugh in his voice.

"You didn't have dinner," she handed him a Chinese take out box from a brown paper bag and took out another for herself.

"How did you know I'd be here?" he said, opening up the box. The smell of food made him feel hungry and he realised he hadn't eaten for more than twelve hours.

"I'm a detective, Mac. And you have certain routines," she rested against a fence and looked out onto the water, taking in the same images he had. He smiled, resisting the urge to reprimand her for walking in the park so late at night alone.

"Any thoughts on the case?" he said, glancing at her as she ate.

Stella looked thoughtful. "Many, but none of them lead anywhere. We've got several people to track down, and whatever officers we can spare are on that. Nothing is giving us a straight answer. There's very little evidence we can use from any of the bodies," she sighed. "Sid's got another pathologist in to do Sam's PM tomorrow morning."

"I think we know who did it," Mac said. "Rachael McKinsey. I've had an APB put out for her, but I don't think she's going to turn up that easy." Stella nodded in agreement, scooping more noodles up to her mouth. "You should go home and get some rest."

"So should you," she said, her staring landing on him. "You need to do something to switch off, Mac, even you can't go forever without sleep. Give that brain of yours a chance to process without you analysing."

He gave a wry grin, knowing she was right. "The one thing that puzzles me is why? Why has it suddenly gone to murder? There are thousands of cults, and most of them live very peacefully with their own beliefs without killing."

"I think the answer to that is in the collection of personalities you have: David Rostow we know is unstable, but physically harmless, although he obviously has the charisma and presence to captivate people; Rachael McKinsey – she appears to be the one doing the killing," Stella said.

"So we have a female serial killer on our hands," Mac said between mouthfuls. "But what was the trigger? Why start killing now?"

"Maybe she's getting rid of those people who present a threat to her status quo. The motive behind Sam's murder is clear – he could quite easily have talked about what was going on. It seems obvious that it was Sam who brought Brian Goddard's body to the precinct – although he must have had some help in lifting him. Sid confirmed that Sam had been on an hour's break before the body was discovered," Mac stopped speaking and concentrated on the box of food, still feeling hungry.

"Then there's another weak link somewhere," Stella said. "One that Rachael obviously doesn't know about. I think we can say why Goddard and Raimo were both murdered – they knew who had been taken in and were going to intervene; maybe get in touch with parents and spouses, and maybe ruin Paul Murphy in the process."

"I think that's likely. I imagine Paul Murphy was involved on the periphery – maybe attracting recruits and benefitting from the money. I would wager half my salary on the money trail leading us to a very hefty sum in some off shore account that Murphy was dipping into," Mac said, crushing the food carton with his hand.

"Flack's got one of his old bank team buddies looking into it, but it's going to take days, possibly weeks. Lindsay's been asked to contact all parents and spouses of those on the list and request that they don't make any more payments," Stella said.

"You think that's wise? That may set Rachael off on a bigger killing spree. She may blame the victims," Mac said, turning side on to the lake. The clouded light of the moon caught Stella's face, making her seem almost ethereal.

"It's likely to be several days before they notice what's happened – if the families agree to stop the money. Hopefully we'll have her in custody by then," she yawned and looked a little disgustedly at her now empty food carton. "I'm still hungry – you up for an early breakfast?"

Mac nodded. "This one's on me."

-&-

Flack's apartment was tidy but comfortable, and Jess knew it well enough to be able to sit down without being offered a chair, and could find her way around the kitchen to make coffee. He'd spent more time at her place though, that being more convenient for the precinct, and the bars he liked to patronage. Danny had ended up spending a lot of time there too – she'd realised pretty early on if she was going to be friends with Don, then Danny would always be somewhere nearby. Which was no bad thing – she liked him – although sometimes he could be a little screwed up. She rubbed her eyes, finding them dry, and almost collapsed onto the sofa, pulling off her boots and swinging her legs up. Don had made his way over to the window and was looking out onto the street, peering into the night's movements.

She could see the tension in his shoulders, and his lack of conversation told her that not all was well with him. She wondered if it was the case or them. The line that had been very carefully drawn by them had now been crossed, and it was going to be very difficult to simply go back to being buddies who went for a drink after their shift. She wasn't regretting it, any of it, except possibly the lack of time they'd had with just them, without work getting in the way even for an evening.

"What's the matter?" she said, her voice strong. The silence hung there briefly, before he turned around and looked at her. His tie was dishevelled and he had a six o'clock shadow. The look in his eyes worried her, and she wondered what his thoughts had been on the drive back to his.

"I've been thinking about this all day," he said and she braced herself for bad news. "Coming back here with you, making dinner with you, taking you to bed." He paused, and she saw a different look cover his face, her fears melting. There was no bad news, just a difficulty in finding words. "We should have been off shift hours ago and done all those things."

"It's our job, Don – at least we understand why we can't, we don't have to explain it to someone else who won't get it," she said, feeling his frustration.

He nodded. "I know. But, just for once, I'd like to pretend that our jobs weren't going to stop us from doing something normal." He moved from the window and sat down next to her, keeping a little difference between them on the couch that had been chosen because it was bigger enough to get several people on it during certain sporting occasions.

"It's not going to happen," she said, an ironic laugh in her voice.

He nodded, looking down at the floor before sighing and transferring his gaze to her. "We've been playing games for months, Jess. If we didn't work together – who knows – we… God knows where we would have been by now."

She slid off the couch and stepped closer to him. "Nobody said it was going to be perfect, Don," she said. She straddled him, her fingers unknotting his tie, then the buttons of his shirt, wanting to distract him from thoughts that there were no answers to, no solutions except to carry on how they were for the moment. His blue eyes blazed as he caught her hands. He would not let her dominate him and that she liked; he was her equal, a partner in more ways than one.

"It's too late for dinner," she said. "But there's nothing stopping you from taking me to bed."

Flack stood up, her legs wrapped around his waist and his mouth meeting hers in a fierce, heated kiss. He was frustrated with the situation and it showed in his touch, in his force. She met it with a passion of her own as he backed into his bedroom door to open in and put her down onto his bed, leaning over her, the pillows from the night before discarded on the floor still.

Jess' fingers worked open his buttons, exposing his chest, running her hands over his skin, across his scars. His mouth caught hers again, pinning her down against the mattress and she felt him unzip her jeans, his hands expert. She lifted her hips to help him slide them off, along with her panties, then moved her own hands to his belt, wanting to match her almost nakedness with his.

Their kisses softened, as if Flack was holding back to prolong what was going to happen, wanting to take some time while it was available. He fumbled with her bra strap and shifted back while she undid it herself, a redness tingeing his cheeks and a soft laugh emerging. She grinned back wickedly; knowing that after, she would remind him of it, but now wasn't the time for banter.

A bell chimed somewhere, echoing into the room. Three in the morning.

"We have to be at the station in five hours," he said quietly as he looked at her, making no attempt to be discreet as his eyes devoured the sight of her. Her hands caressed slowly, touching him in the places she had already learnt were sensitive, remembering what she had already read from his body.

"We don't need sleep," she said, as his mouth fell to her neck and began to travel down, the urgency from earlier returning. All thoughts of the day, of the case, of murder, disappeared, his touch erasing them, and Jess felt herself dissolve into him.

The apartment was silent, as if listening to them becoming lovers again, and she became lost in a cacophony of touch. Nothing else mattered except them.

And then she heard the buzzer and a voice break the apartment's stillness, interrupting. It was Danny.

-&-

Jennifer Dunn brushed Jackie's hair from the roots to the ends, counting the strokes in a soft voice, as her mother used to.

"You know Paul's dead?" Jackie said, her voice no more than a whisper.

Jennifer nodded as Jackie turned her head and looked at her. "What do you think this means for us?"

"I don't think it matters," Jennifer said, continuing to brush by repositioning her arm. "You have such beautiful hair. I wish mine was so dark."

Jackie smiled, reaching up and stopping Jennifer brushing with a soft grasp of her wrist. "What's David asked you to do?" her tone was sharper now, more insistent.

"He wants me to recruit," Jenn said, sitting down on the bench. "He's pleased with me – I only sleep for an hour a night now, so this is his reward."

"You know he alters the clocks? He makes us think that it's working," Jackie said.

Jennifer smiled. David had warned her that this would happen, that the other would resent how special she was. "I don't think so, Jackie," she said, then stood up and left the older woman to herself. She had more important things to do.

-&-

Flack pulled a pair of shorts on and went to answer the door, leaving Jess to scramble around for one of his t-shirts. He mentally cursed his friend and half considered not opening the door, but for Danny to appear in person at this hour of the morning, something must be seriously amiss.

"Messer," Flack said as Danny entered.

"Lindsay's missing," was the greeting. Danny's face was pained, his eyes red with tiredness behind his glasses, contacts long since disposed of.

"You sure she'd not just avoiding you?" Flack said as Angell emerged from his bedroom. She went immediately to the coffee maker, saying nothing.

"I've tried everywhere. The lab, the morgue, her apartment, that café round the corner where she likes the cocoa… She's not even got her cell with her. I rang it from outside her apartment and I could hear it ringing. She never leaves it at home, Flack. I'm telling you – something's happened," Danny said, now pacing the room.

"Have you contacted Mac?" Flack said, refusing to jump on Danny's bandwagon of drama.

Danny shook his head. "I wondered if you or Angell had any idea of where she could be? I didn't want to go bugging Mac right away."

"I would have checked the same places you have," Flack said. "You been in her apartment to check – she could've been sleeping heavy or something."

"Lindsay doesn't sleep heavy," Danny said, the finality in his tone telling Flack that wasn't an option. "She was still beating herself up over what happened to Moore."

Flack became aware of Jess moving closer to him, and aware of the length of leg she was showing from where his t-shirt ended.

"I think we need to head over to her apartment," Jess said. "And contact Stella. She has a key – it'll save getting the super involved."

Danny nodded, his head clearly reeling with ideas about what could have happened. "Thanks – I'm sorry to interrupt you like this…" If it had been a normal situation a few insinuations would have followed, but none came. "I'll see you over there."

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the apartment in a different silence than before.

"I told you we didn't need sleep," Jess said, walking the three paces over to Flack.

"C'mere," he said, pulling her into him. He was tired, mentally exhausted and beginning to wonder when all this would end and he could take two consecutive days off. "You look far better in that than I do." He pulled at the t-shirt. She smiled, then broke away to find her phone and call Stella.

_Please review - even if you don't have an account or aren't logged in you can still review and they are inspirational to writing!! Hopefully another chapter tomorrow, since I'm off work with tonsilitis at present and have been told to rest!_


	15. Chapter 15 Friends in Dark Places

_Thank you to everyone who took the time to read the last chapter, and those who have marked it as a favourite or set up an alert! I hope you continue to enjoy it! I've not proof read this chapter too well, so I'm feeling a little insecure about it. let me know what you think, and any suggestions you may have._

_The beginning bit is not meant to be offensive to anyone - just showing that some people are insane enough to twist words that they shouldn't for their own means._

**Chapter 15**

**Friends in Dark Places**

""God said, "Let there be light" and there was light. And God saw that the light was good; and God separated the light from the darkness." He gave me the light, and He told me to fill you with that light, so that you leave the darkness behind. It will never claim you; death will never touch your soul. You will be reborn into the light, never needing the death of sleep…"

Jackie had stopped listening and was instead staring at the new recruit, a young man she did not recognise. His face was drawn, dark circles under his eyes, lacking sleep. Within a week he would begin to feel refreshed and reenergised, within a week he would be worshipping the man who sat in his wheelchair on the stage, believing he could create miracles.

Seven months ago she'd given her third meal of the day to Jennifer, while Paul wasn't watching. They were meant to eat everything on their plate, and usually there was no reason not to. The food was delicious. She had no idea who cooked it, but it had become one of the highlights of her 'stay'. Jennifer had been so hungry one evening that Jackie had simply swapped her full plate for Jenn's empty one, pitying the girl her small portions. It seemed that Rostow wanted to keep Jenn thin, that he did indeed have plans for her, but the girl quite naturally had a better appetite than that.

That night –or the time when they thought it was night - when they went to their rooms for 'rest period' she found herself unusually hyperactive, and instead of allowing her eyes to close for the hour they were given to rest, she stayed alert. Out of boredom, she began to clock watch, willing the hour to go by so she could join some of the other in a study group, or read. The single hour turned into five, then six, then seven, and then as if by some miracle she saw the hands of the clock begin to wind back.

But it wasn't a miracle. The clocks in her school when she had lived in England had all done the same thing – she has seen it happen on one Monday morning when the clocks had been put forward for spring. Controlled by someone – electrical impulses or something like that. And then she knew - they were being drugged.

The house had no windows. All the light was false; every room had a UV lamp so no one felt the effects of missing sunlight too much. Their weight and health were monitored daily, so correct amounts of any sleeping tablets would always be administered, and meal times were constantly supervised. All of the women had been given a contraceptive injection of some sort or so she figured, so even nature could not let them know how many days had actually passed.

Everyone believed that they were sleeping for only one hour in a twenty four hour period, but in reality it was their concept of time that had been changed, not some miracle created by Rostow. They were all older than they thought.

Jackie let her mind wander while trying to keep her eyes fixed on their self-declared leader. There was no way out. The people that had wanted to leave seemingly had, such as Sam. But he'd been there for different reasons; he'd had a different level of enlightenment, or what she called the Rachael Effect.

Rachael sat next to Rostow looking as effervescent as ever. Her hair had been dyed dark by one of the other women there and it suited her as most things did. Rachael wasn't there most nights, but when she was few people could take their eyes off her. Jackie wondered where Sam was. He hadn't been back for four days and she was concerned. Sam had wanted to leave, he'd become dissatisfied with the group. And now he hadn't come back. Jackie wondered why; why no one who wanted to leave ever came back or made contact.

She had to get out of there.

-&-

Stella banged on the door and called Lindsay's name, her eyes feeling dry with tiredness and her head beginning to pound. Mac was paying the check in the diner when Angell's call came through, her tone matter-of-fact and direct as usual. They had headed straight to Lindsay's apartment and found Danny already stood outside her door, banging enough to wake the dead.

"I think we need to go in, Stella," Flack said, his attire strangely casual. Stella pulled Lindsay's spare keys out of her purse and unlocked the door, her hand on her gun. Mac followed her in, covering her back.

"It's clear," Stella shouted. It was only a small, one bed roomed apartment and it became obvious that no person was in there very quickly. Flack, Danny and Angell followed them in, any thoughts of tiredness washed from their minds by the sense of urgency that the situation was creating.

"Her bed's been slept in but not made," Angell said. "And her nightshirt has been left on the pillow. My guess would be that she's got out of bed to go somewhere in a hurry."

"Any sign of her weapon?" Mac said, having pulled open a few of the kitchen drawers to check for its presence there.

"Can't see her badge either," Flack said, standing with his back to the door. "Any idea where she normally keeps it when she's at home?" He looked at Danny, who was stood looking slightly useless, his hands in the pocket of his biker jacket.

"Beside her bed. Her gun's normally kept in the drawer of her bedside cabinet so it's near in case of emergencies," he looked sullen, his eyes swooping round the room, hunting for ideas and theories.

"Was Lindsay still feeling bad about what happen to Officer Moor?" Angell said. Stella noticed how close she stood to Flack and wondered where they had come from to both arrive at Lindsay's apartment at the same time.

Danny nodded. "She just wanted to be on her own. If she makes a mistake, she's like that…" he looked at Angell. "You think she's found a lead and is following it up herself?"

Angell shrugged. "Possibly. She might have had an idea for something and wanted to see if it would lead anywhere before having more people chase it up. I doubt she's put herself in danger," she stopped having noticed a change in Flack's expression. "What is it?"

"The guy on reception at Vanderbilt Hall – the one you got Raimo's details from," Flack's tiredness showed in his lack of eloquence.

"How would Lindsay know him?" Angell said. Even with all Danny's panicked atmosphere running off him and clouding the room it was impossible to miss the connection between Flack and Angell. Stella glanced at Mac and wondered if he'd seen it too.

"Didn't she have a case there a few months back? Some girl was attacked by a jock in her class?" Flack said, still being held by Angell's gaze.

"Mary-Elizabeth Miller," Danny said. "It was one of those cases that really got under Lindsay's skin. She nailed the scum bag that did it though."

"I suggest that Danny stays here to see if Lindsay turns up, or anyone comes looking for her," Mac said. The signs of tiredness were fading, Stella observed, as a new mission began for him. "Flack and I will go over to Vanderbilt and you two should go home and get some sleep." He gestured at Angell and Stella.

Angell shook her head, and for a moment Stella wondered whether the detective was taking Mac's instructions as insulting seeing as it was the two females he was sending home. In reality, she knew that any rest would last two or three hours at most, at which point Mac and Flack – or Flack at least – would take a few hours out.

"I've spoken with the guy on reception there before and we had a good rapport," Angell's tone gave away exactly what type of rapport that was, and Stella saw a strange expression briefly cross Flack's face. He had never been possessive with previous girlfriends and she wondered about the depth of the relationship that was being forged between them. Seeing a colleague was not something Flack would have begun without thought. Maybe she should chat with him about it sometime.

Mac nodded. "If you feel you'll be able to get more information out of him, should there be anything to get, then Flack and I will take first rest. Call me when you're done. Danny, stay here. You think of anywhere she might be, then call one of us." He glanced at Stella before making his way out of the apartment and she read his look. He wanted to talk.

"Angell?" she said. "I'll see you outside. I just want to check something with Mac." Angell nodded, and left with Flack, who gave Mac a puzzled look. Stella stepped outside the apartment, saying a quick goodbye to Danny, who was pacing around the room still, looking as if something was eating him from the inside. "What's up?" she said, keeping her voice low.

"I'm going to stay here with Danny, at least till he's calmer. You think something's happened to Lindsay?" he said, his tone matching her's.

"Well you obviously don't," she said. "If you suspected anything you'd have started a full scale search."

He nodded. "I think Flack's right. Lindsay's got a hunch and she's following it. She'll be back in her apartment before we find where she's gone. I want Danny to be there so they can finally clear up whatever's going on between them."

"I hope you're right," Stella said, eyeballing him.

"I'm always right," he said.

Stella laughed.

-&-

Peter Andrews had his back to the reception desk and was filling away papers when Angell and Stella arrived. He turned around with a start, realising that there was someone else present, and his face broke out into a broad smile when he saw Angell. She returned the grin, ignoring Stella's raised eyebrow and flashed her badge.

"Hi Peter," she began. "This is Detective Stella Bonasera, who works with the crime lab, and we met a couple of days ago. I just wanted to ask you a few questions."

"Sure," Peter said, fidgeting nervously with his too long fringe. "Tell me – are all New York cops as pretty as your team seem to be?"

Stella laughed lightly. "It's nice of you to say that, Peter. C an I assume that you've seen another of our team tonight?"

Peter nodded. "Detective Monroe was here about…" he checked the clock. "…an hour ago. She was asking about Lebowitz."

Angell felt a weight lifted off her shoulders. "Any idea where she went after here?"

"I think she was heading home. She said I'd confirmed what she'd thought and been very helpful," Peter said, a note of pride springing into his demeanour.

"What was it you told her, Peter?" Stella said, giving him a smile filled with enough charm to make Danny pass up on a ball game.

"Just that Lebovitz had been staying at my place – lying low there. There are people she wants to avoid – or rather one person she wants avoid," Peter said. Angell got the feeling that he would like to talk for what was left of the night.

"You know this person's name?" Angell said, her voice now serious. She had a feeling she knew what was coming next.

"Rachael… somebody. I don't remember her last name. Leb doesn't talk about it much," he said with a shrug. "You know, maybe you and I could get a coffee sometime?"

Angell smiled. "I'm sorry – I'm seeing someone. If things were different, maybe. Is Leb at yours now?" She tried to appease him, but a dark look that fell into his eyes told her it hadn't worked.

He sent her a cold look, and gave his answer to Stella instead. "She's not left her room for a day and half. I keep bringing her drinks and calling her every couple of hours to make sure she's okay. You want the address?"

"Did you give to Detective Monroe?" Stella said.

Peter nodded. He was just about to speak again when Stella's cell began to ring. She took a step back from the reception to answer. Angell heard Mac's voice as he began to explain.

-&-

"I thought something had happened to you?" Danny's voice filled the apartment. Now Mac had gone he could stop this illusion of being in control. "You didn't take your cell; you didn't let anybody know what you were doing. Lindsay, we have a killer who has no issue with murdering cops…" He stopped. She was smiling at him.

"I had an idea. I couldn't sleep. Next door were…" she shook her head. "I was gone two hours, maybe slightly longer because I stopped to get a hot cocoa from the all night diner."

He let his head drop, his elbows on his knees and his legs apart; his hands rubbing his head as he was want to do at times of frustration. "I've had Mac, Stella, Flack and Angell here. I even interrupted Angell and Flack getting their first bit of 'alone' time. I seriously thought something had happened to you, Linds."

"Montana girls are made from stronger stuff than that. You should know that by now," she sat down next to him, her hand resting on his back.

He looked up at her, feeling his shoulders become less tense. Impetuously, he threw an arm around her and pulled her into him. She let herself be drawn close, the quiet of the night wrapping round them like a feather quilt; soft, warm and comforting.

-&-

Flack answered after the first ring and Jess wondered if he'd been sat on his cell. "Lindsay's fine. She's back at her apartment. Shouldn't you have been asleep?" she said, not giving him a chance to speak first.

"I wanted to know what was happening," he said, his voice sounding tired and weary, the lack of sleep catching up with him.

"She's found a lead. The Lebovitz girl that was on reception and worked at the therapy place, it looks like she's linked to Rachael McKinsey. Stella's bringing her into protective custody until we question her in the morning," Angell said, keeping her eyes open for a cab.

"Good. We've got something to work with," Flack said. "I spoke with the powers and we have nine men back off sick tomorrow. We're both off shift till two pm and then we're on a late. Late not meaning nights, so I'm taking you to dinner."

"Do I not have a say?" Jess said, laughing.

"No. Where are you heading back to now?" he said, sounding drowsy.

"Home, I guess."

"Come back to mine," he said. "I can describe for you what I'm wearing if that'll get you back here." He began to sound more awake.

"Isn't that meant to be my line?" she said, getting into a cab and giving the driver Don's address.

"Hey – equality between the sexes. I'll wait for you at the entrance." He hung up, leaving her with a growing warmth inside.

_Please review_


	16. Chapter 16 Sun Breaks

_Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far, and added me to their alerts and favourites! Sorry this has been a while in coming. I've been back at work this week and just too tired after having tonsilitis when I've eventually got home._

_Hope you enjoy - please review and let me know what you think, bad or good, all comments welcome!_

_Thanks to Juliette for reviewing, and Lily for reading!_

**Chapter 16**

**Sun Breaks**

The sun is a jealous fool, ceasing lovers' touches as it breaks through windows and creeps into the eyes of those who wish for the night to remain. It has no partner, no lover, no true companion, and instead interferes in the lives of others, impeding touches; removing the caress of a finger with its wake up call; and bringing an end to the night, whose dark cover gives permission for that lover's touch.

Mac woke alone, a sheet wrapped round his torso, the duvet discarded in his sleep. The super still hadn't sorted the heating system; it was way too hot, too early and his apartment now felt like a sauna.

He checked his cell for the time: 7:10. He'd managed two and half hours sleep, which was about average, and was enough to refresh him. He'd know other ex-marines who struggled to sleep for any long periods of time, mainly to do with the short periods they were allowed when on active service. And you didn't sleep properly. When yours and the lives around you were under constant threat you slept with both ears and an eye open. Two and a half hours was enough.

-&-

Aneka Lebovitz hadn't particularly considered the sun during the last 24 hours. Instead, she'd been rather more concerned with staying alive. Rachael McKinsey had called her several times, insisting on a meeting, and Aneka had certainly known what she would want to discuss during that meeting.

There wasn't any reason for a conversation, really. Aneka had no intentions of talking to the police. She was quite happy with what she did, passing on details of students who were being counselled for being depressed, and she was quite happy with the extra income she received for that. She'd been more than happy to arrange for Tailor Raimo to be in Brian Goddard's office at a certain time, but she hadn't known _why_. If she'd have realised what Rachael was going to do, she'd have kept well out of it.

And now she was well in it. Rachel would more than likely want to make sure she wasn't capable of saying another word, and the police would want her to say plenty.

She looked at the officer who sat down in front of her. He was somewhere in his forties, she guessed, with blue eyes that looked steel-like. Last night she'd dealt with a detective called Bonasera, a nice enough woman, who'd promised all sorts of safety, but Aneka knew promises wouldn't work against Rachael.

"Hi, Ms Lebowitz," the officer began. "I'm Detective Mac Taylor and I need to ask you a few questions."

She stared at him, hard. She had no intensions of answering any questions. If they took her into custody for stopping a police inquiry or whatever it was called then so be it. She'd be safe in custody.

"Do you know a man called David Rostow?" Detective Taylor said. His tone was soft, as if he was talking to a child.

"No," Aneka said, looking him straight in the eye.

""Do you know a woman named Rachael McKinsey?"

"No," she said again. "I'm going to answer no to everything, Detective. Don't waste your time."

He eyed her oddly, clearly thinking about his next mode of attack.

"Ms Lebowitz, Rostow and McKinsey are suspected of being involved in several murders. We really need to stop them before they do more damage," he said, clearly trying to play on her conscience.

Aneka shrugged. "I don't know anything. I can't help you. Whatever my friend told you was clearly meant to mislead you. Or maybe he thought he was being helpful."

"So why did you miss you shift at work and hide in someone else's house for two days?" the detective said.

"I wasn't hiding. I was studying. My dorm was too noisy."

"Exams finished last week. What were you studying for?"

She mentally cursed herself. Exams had ended. She shrugged.

"I think you're scared, Aneka," Detective Taylor said. "If you're worried about what might happen to you if you help us, we can make sure that no one will hurt you."

"I don't know anything, Detective, so why should I be scared?" she said, folding her arms on the table and placing her head down on them. "I'm tired. Your girlfriend woke me up at some stupid time and I need some sleep. Maybe if you let me sleep I might think of something to help you."

"All we need is an address, Aneka. Where we can find Rachael or David. That's it," he stood up, surprising her. She'd thought that he would have tried to interrogate her more, tried to drag the information out of her, but he hadn't. "We're going to keep you on protective custody, Aneka, till we can be sure that you'll be safe. If there is anything that you need, just let one of my officers know, and they'll do their best to sort it out."

He left the room, leaving her to her thoughts. She looked up at the ceiling and began to consider what to do.

-&-

Stella woke up feeling exhausted. Her alarm hadn't yet gone off; instead she had been woken by the sun slipping in between her curtains, its bright light shining through her eyelids and waking her. She stumbled out of bed and pulled the curtains closer together, blocking the light. Then she slipped back between the soft sheets and closed her eyes, urging herself to sleep for the other hour that was owed to her. The night hadn't been easy, and she felt its pressures and stresses still weighting down her shoulders; weighing almost too much. She turned over, fighting to get comfortable and trying to shake thoughts about the case from her mind, but they kept ticking through, almost like nightmarish sheep.

Eventually, she sat up; her eyes feeling dry and tired. There was no way sleep was going to find her, not anytime soon. She pushed back the duvet and made her way to the bathroom, hoping that a shower would revive her senses enough to make the rest of what would be a long day bearable.

Her mind ticked over the case as she let the water soak her. She took her showers hot; as hot as she could stand. On one of the few occasions Mac had been in her apartment while she took a shower he had commented on the redness left on her skin, giving a very scientific explanation as to why showers shouldn't be that hot.

"It makes me feel alive," she'd said after he had finished. "What makes you feel like that?"

He'd ignored the sarcastic tone in her voice, and shrugged, looking lonely and out of reach. She'd wanted to hug him then, but had refrained and offered coffee instead, the red blotches on her chest cooling down to their normal shade.

Today her thoughts were not with Mac. Instead she was creating a timeline, a timeline of the dates she had seen Sam outside of work. She'd met him on several occasions, not far from her apartment, and always close to JoJo's Coffee Shop, the place she frequented for her bagels in the morning. He'd been in there on many occasions, and she'd always assumed it was because of a girlfriend as he lived at the other side of the precinct from where she did.

The shower served its purpose, and she headed into work with clearer objectives than she'd had before a little sleep had found her. Maybe the key to staying awake was taking hot showers, and Mac was merely the exception that proved the rule.

-&-

Hawkes dusted the handle for prints before opening the door, although given the commotion that had greeted the finding there was going to be a lot of elimination to do. The room he entered was basic, but clearly furnished with money. His own dorm room had been barely a box containing two less than single beds and two desks, both carved upon by the previous occupants, and one possessing a drawer that always smelt a little suspicious. He had not lived the high life whilst at college, but clearly Maxwell Wilson III had.

The body was in bed, and looked to be sleeping to all intents and purposes. It was only when the eyes were viewed that death could be seen in all its grotesque glory.

It was part of the reason he'd escaped from the operating room to the morgue: the eyes. They were the mirrors of the soul, a saying whose origins he never knew, and he had watched patients' eyes as their soul had fallen away from them. Unable to be saved. So he'd changed, needing to find another way to save their souls.

Hawkes moved closer to the body, noting its similarities to how Sam had been left. Maxwell was naked, the thin white sheet left at the bottom of the double bed. Whoever had killed him hadn't bothered to cover him up afterwards, no remorse needed showing. Hawkes' eyes examined the chest, noting the sign of an injection directly to the heart. It was a method used by the Nazis, a cheap lethal injection. For Maxwell, there had been no expensive and indulgent death. Instead it had been quick, and painless and without struggle. But there had been no excitement or love of life beforehand, no potential had been fulfilled and the only memories he would leave behind were ones of sorrow and bitterness.

"Good morning, Sheldon," Hawkes heard Sid's voice as he entered the room. "I believe we have what may be another piece of handiwork by one of David Rostow's minions."

Hawkes stood up as Sid leant over the body, beginning his brief survey. "The skin around the mouth and nose is reddened, and pupils are dilated – as would be expected. There is some damage to the cornea… all suggesting that chloroform was used to subdue him before an intravenous inject was administered to the heart. Time of death was around 2 to 3 days ago, given the temperature in here and the signs of decomp." Sid clicked his glasses back around his neck, giving Hawkes a sign that he was done. Hawkes watched his expression and noted his pallor. Sam's death had taken its toll.

"It wasn't your fault, Sid," Hawkes said, wanting to offer some sympathy.

Hammerback shrugged. "I think everyone has a part to play. Nothing we could have done could have stopped what Sam was doing. If he'd told us it would have been a different matter."

Hawkes nodded, knowing that Sid was right. "You still shouldn't blame yourself." He also knew that Sid's words were lip service.

"It's difficult. I worked closely with him, yet still didn't spot the signs." Sid rubbed at his eyes and Hawkes wondered how much sleep he'd had.

"Sam could have been involved with Rostow even before he worked for you. You wouldn't have spotted anything different as you'd nothing to compare it to," Hawkes said. His words would be of little comfort, he knew, but he still had to do something to ease Sid's pain.

"I noticed that Sam wasn't looking too good these past couple of days, but put it down to this bug that's affected almost everyone," he shook his head. "And now we have another body. When is it going to stop, Sheldon?"

Hawkes' eyes gave the answer. They didn't know. And it could get worse before it got better.

-&-

Flack woke with the sun peering between his curtains and shining directly into his eyes. He muffled a groan and reached out an arm to push the curtain along, blocking out the annoying light. Back in the half darkness of early morning he saw Angell's form lying beside him, the sheets wrapped around her, her hair mussed on the pillow. A brief glance at the clock told him they had plenty of time left for sleeping.

He pushed all thoughts of the case from his mind, more interested in the contents of his bed. Memories of a few hours before still lingered like the last bars of the last song, played at a celebration when everyone else had gone home. For there were only him and her on the dance floor now; everyone else had left the building.

The sheets rose and fell with her breaths and he studied their rhythm, keeping her with him even in sleep. Her face was peaceful; any tense expressions had been left behind when sleep took her, and her body was free from the weight of the worries and drama of the hours before.

He wondered what she dreamed, and whether he was in them as he lay back down, his chest to her back, pushing her hair away with his hand so he wouldn't lie on it and hurt her when she moved. The almost black strands contrasted with the white of the pillow cases and his memory recalled Snow White.

His chin touched her shoulder and she stirred slightly, moving her legs closer to his. He could smell her hair, and the scent began to blossom into his dreams as he ignored the sun's calls and returned to sleep, allowing himself to walk into Hypnos' realm without fear, knowing that he would be released when he woke.

The sun continued to shine over the city, waking those fools who succumbed to its strict routine. There were others who chose to ignore his rays, keeping to patterns of their own, or, in some cases, patterns that were made for them, and they had no choice whether to follow them or not.

_Thanks for reading! Please review - I could do with a little cheering up!_


	17. Chapter 17 Into the Sun, Into the Rain

_Thank you to all those who reviewed the last chapter. I'm sorry this isn't as long as normal. I'm back to being busy again, to shorter and more frequent might be better than longer and less often._

_A/N: I don't own, so don't sue._

**Chapter 17**

**Into the Sun, Into the Rain **

Jackie rested her back as far against the wall as she could manage, beads of sweat dripping off her head onto the floor. She had seen in on TV; a girl was discovered because the murderer noticed the sweat dripping onto the floor, and she tried to wipe away the perspiration, certain that its very presence was making some sort of echoing noise. She held her breath and waited, hoping that the shadows would conceal her should David or Rachael exit the room before she could hide.

She'd spent the last two days planning it, going over everything in her head, but even now she knew that she'd not given it enough thought. But she couldn't wait anymore; couldn't spend one more hour of her life in this prison. That was what it had become to her: a prison, only it was one she'd entered willingly.

She'd been studying for an MA in Holocaust Litigation. Been seemed the appropriate word, being in the past tense. There was no way of going back now. At the same time as beginning her studies her seven year relationship with her childhood sweetheart had broken down after she'd had an affair with another guy on her course, and then her life had flipped over like a car in a collision and she'd thrown herself into a depression. It had been four weeks after she'd began counselling sessions that she'd 'met' David Rostow. A week after that, Brian Goddard had sought her out and warned her against him, told her it could ruin her chances of completing her masters as Rostow wasn't meant to be anywhere near the college and his reputation had been ruined, and would probably taint hers. Paul Murphy had then sought her out and offered words of comfort and a warm body to sleep next to, plus given her a helping hand with an assignment. It had been then she'd been persuaded to join Rostow's family, believing that all her troubles and woes were down to sleeping and disappearing into the Devil's lair every night.

She knew she'd been brainwashed.

For a while, it had been nice; being taken care of, having other people sympathise with her and seemingly see her point of view, and she had seen theirs. But then things had changed. A man had joined, someone she'd known vaguely from the college, and he'd wanted out, wanted to leave their family. She overheard David talking to Paul and they'd agreed that he would have to go, that he was a liability.

A few hours later he'd disappeared. Vanished into thin air almost and they all believed that he'd left of his own free will.

For most of them, it made their loyalty stronger, made them feel more of a unit, but it made Jackie question. And when she saw blood on the sheets and a hole that looked the same size as a bullet the brainwashing ceased.

Now she stood; metres away from Rachael and Rostow, listening into their conversation, the topic of which was making her blood run cold. They were discussing the end, the final passageway out of the reach of Hypnos and Thanatos. They were talking about mass suicide.

She felt the sweat run cold as it trailed down her back, leaving pathways along skin that had felt no touch bar her own for several months. She had seen Rachael enter the nearby door from the outside, she'd glimpsed the natural light of the outside world, and she'd seen Rachael fail to lock the door behind her. That had been stroke of luck. She'd been planning on running out of the door whenever someone left and taking that chance. But now it seemed that she could just slip out.

Rostow and Rachael began to speak again, completely unaware to the fact that someone was outside in a forbidden area. Jackie resisted temptation to listen in any longer and instead began to head to the door, hiding in the shadows. She heard Rostow raise his voice and mention a name, someone called Maxwell. Taking advantage of their distraction she upped her pace and reached the door.

Twisting the unlocked handle, she blinked as she saw the light of the sun for the first time in months and then began to run as fast as she could, tears streaming down her face and the wind blowing them dry.

-&-

"She's refusing to talk."

Stella watched Mac as he leaned into the window pane, looking out over the city. His shoulders were rigid, his muscles tense with frustration and she pushed away the brief urge to use her hands to relax his shoulders, pushing her finger tips into the back pockets of the jeans she had chosen to wear.

"Can we charge her with obstruction?" she said.

Mac nodded; his expression grim. "It's been done; if only to keep her somewhere safe until we make sure that she's not on this group's hit list."

"You don't think we'll get anywhere with her?" Stella said, wanting confirmation before she tested her theory.

His face was pulled into an expression that gave away his opinion on the matter, and she began to explain how frequently she saw Sam near her apartment. "I thought it was because he had a girlfriend who lived around there," she said. "But now I think it's where Rostow and his 'Family' may be based."

"It's the biggest lead we have at the moment," Mac said. "I've sent Danny to do a thorough search of Sam's apartment and see if that gives us any leads. Until then, we're back to where we were."

Stella nodded, thoughts running through her mind and she tried to capture them. "Rostow's father. Have we heard from him since?"

Mac shook his head. "There's been no word from him. Why? What do you think he knows?"

"Well, the last time we spoke with him we had no idea of a cult. Maybe he knew about it and just failed to mention it," Stella put forward. "I'm going to go back to him and see what he's got to say."

-&-

There was no sign of Elior Rostow at the address he'd given, and the woman he'd claimed to be his sister was in fact an only child – a miracle baby, as she told Stella, taking up ten minutes of the detective's time, ten minutes Stella knew she'd never get back. Stella then headed back to Brian Goddard's house, knowing that if Elior wasn't there, then they had lost all contact with him and yet again, they'd be at square one.

The day was fine and bright, no promise of rain hung in the air and had this been a rest day – a rarity since the bug had hit – she would have spent it walking around one of New York's many parks, taking in the city and its character, always finding something new and different in places she'd seen before.

But it was no rest day, and it was unlikely to be anything along the lines of restful. She parked up at the front of Goddard's house and rapped firmly on the door. Technically, she should have someone else with her, but the sickness had left them short staffed, and she knew what she was doing. If anyone other than Elior answered, she'd remain outside.

Much to her surprise, it was the old man. He offered her a warm smile and stepped outside, letting the door close to behind him.

"Beautiful day," he said, looking up at the sky. "And I bet you've spent the first part of it chasing round after an old man."

"How'd you guess?" she said, unable to show the extent of her wrath in a glare at the smiling man.

"She is my sister," he said. "But she was an actress when she was younger and she had you fooled, didn't she?"

Stella nodded and raised her eyebrows. "Why give us a false address and stay here?" she said.

He looked at her knowingly. "Because there's someone who could have gotten hold of that information and used it to find me."

"Weren't you concerned they'd harm your sister?"

"She had you convinced, didn't she? Well, there you go. And now you want to know how I know about Sam, don't you?" he said. "You'd better come in, Miss Bonasera, this could take a while."

-&-

"Bramhall Avenue," Flack said, ending the call on his cell. He looked at Angell sat next to him in the car. "5061. That's our place." He started the engine, hoping that this was the breakthrough that they needed, then he'd finally get some time to actually finish a bagel while sitting down.

"Some big houses there," Angell said. "You'd need ten times more than both our salaries combined just to own a box room."

Flack nodded. "We ain't going to be buying round there anytime soon," he swerved passed a car that seemed to have a driver intent on mass murder. "Sometimes I wonder if licences are given out free with every pretzel."

"Flack, pull over," Angell said. He vaguely noticed the use of his last name. When they were alone and off duty it was 'Don'. Now, on work time, he was Flack. He stopped the car, glaring at the driver who drove passed giving him a middle finger salute.

He saw why Angell had told him to stop. A woman he recognised was running down the street in bare feet, other pedestrians falling out of the way and sending her mortified looks at her state of disarray. Angell jumped out of the car and intersected the woman's path, keeping her upright as the woman collapsed.

"They're all going to die," Flack heard the woman say, the macabre words making his hair stand on end. A crowd began to circle round them like vultures, waiting for the words of death to continue. He heard one man shout something about false prophets being stoned and he began to shoo the crowd away like unwanted pigeons. Some flew at the sight of his badge, while others took a few steps back, watching the free entertainment. Angell, clasping hold of the woman, led her into the car where she collapsed, sobbing, as if caught in some nightmarish world where darkness had never seen light.

**Please review!!**


	18. Chapter 18 The Day Dances

_Thank you to all those who reviewed the last chapter - if you haven't, please let me know what you thought of it. It got loads of hits, but only a few reviews :(_

_I need to thank **Lily Moonlight** for her help with the last chapter and for general discussion!!_

_Again, this is a short chapter, but it just seemed to come to a natural break - hope you think it's okay._

Chapter 18

**The Day Dances**

The day dances a merry jig as people try to keep up it's pace, as they attempt to squeeze a multitude of activities into a short space of time and become frustrated when not everything is done. It casts its shadows over them, lending glimpses of its cousin, the night, to darken the ways in which things are perceived, concealing truths and wisdom from those who need to know them.

Cats are not servants of the daytime. For a house cat, sunrise may bring the opening of a can of food, and sunset the promise of the return of the feeder, but it is only the human that is controlled by the light. For night time brings its own rewards, a time of hunting and hiding in shadows, long, sleek bodies waiting to pounce on unsuspecting mice and rodents.

Stella hadn't noticed the cat the last time she had been in Brian Goddard's house. It looked at her for a moment, before twitching a long and bushy black tail and strolling away from her, as if she was nothing special enough to pique his interest.

"That's Winston," Elior said, guiding her into the sitting room, shards of lights falling in from between open curtains and catching the dust as it rose and fell with the currents of air. "He was staying with my sister, but there's more mice here to keep him happy, and I wanted some company."

Stella sat down and looked directly at the old man. "I need to know everything you've got on what your son's been up to," she said. "People are loosing their lives and we need to stop it."

Elior nodded. "I can tell you what I think I know. Bear in mind, my son is a compulsive liar, so the information he's given me may not be accurate." His eyes never left hers as she nodded, showing she understood. "Brian would house those who wanted to leave here, a sort of half way house. He'd worked out David's scheme years ago when David would have a band of followers at the university. He'd give extra lectures and a fair number of people would turn up. At first Brian's response seemed like jealousy, although he was a popular tutor himself. Then David began telling me about how he was going to show the world that geniuses didn't have to be evil – by that he was referring to Hitler, Saddam Hussein - dictators. David wanted power. He's a good speaker, and very enigmatic. He has charisma and a few people began to notice that, Paul Murphy being one of them. Paul never fell for his words, but he saw that there was money to be made, and he encouraged David to only hunt to students who had cash.

"They fell out about it countless times as David wanted to build an army who would listen to him preach about death and how to defeat it. His condition, his muscular dystrophy, has always made him fear dying as well as making him obsessed with being in control. He cannot control his own body, so he has to control others instead." Elior stopped speaking and swallowed. Stella was aware he looked tired and gaunt in his face. She realised the guilt he must be feeling – it was his son who was masterminded the deaths of many people.

"It's not your fault," she said and the old man shook his head.

"I know," he said simply. "The girl he's with, Rachael McKinsey, she's different."

"What do you mean?" Stella said.

"She's his step-daughter. His wife had a child before she met David. She left the girl with her father as she was rather intent on her career and she'd never been particularly maternal. When Rachael was sixteen she came back to live with them and that was when the marriage started to go wrong. David became obsessed with Rachael and the fact that he could never have her," he looked Stella squarely in the eye. "He wanted power. People near him wanted the same thing and the money to go with it. Rachael… I had no idea what she wanted." His eyes left hers and sought the window, looking into the beaming rays of light. When he next spoke it was with a voice that knew what the ending to his story must be. "As Leo Tolstoy said, "In order to get power and retain it, it is necessary to love power, but the love of power is not connected with goodness, but with the qualities that are the opposite of goodness, such as pride, cunning, and cruelty." That's David, I'm afraid, although somewhere along the line I think he actually started to believe in what he preached." He stood up and walked to the window, drawing the curtains and shading out the light. "Somewhere, and if I knew I'd take you there myself, he has a building. His people were taken to it when they were drugged. If they wanted to leave they were taken from it blindfolded. They could never say where it was. I think there are a handful who 'recruit'; the more powerful ones, the ones David – or rather Rachael – trusted. Before he died, Brian was trying to find out exactly who they were. He wanted to build up concrete evidence to take to the police."

"He also had another list of people – names of people who had been reported missing," Stella said, trying to pull more information from Elior.

Elior nodded. "Again, he wanted as much as he could. If he had gone to you sooner he may still be alive."

Stella stood up, Winston the cat slinking into the room and jumping straight into the place where she had just been sat.

Elior smiled slightly, although his eyes retained the same pool of sadness. "Cats have their own agendas and choose never to share it. Good luck, Miss Bonasera. I think you might need it." He sat down, staring into space as she left the room to see herself out.

-&-

"She's gone."

The words echoed around David Rostow's head like a giant roll of thunder. He pressed his hands to his face, forcing the skin of his cheeks upwards. If he could've, he'd have stamped his feet in anger, but the power to do that had long since left him.

"How could she have gone? She was meant to be asleep!" He looked at Rachel, tall, beautiful Rachael, the apple of his eye. She was wearing some designer label, expensive he knew, but he had always wanted to give her everything.

He wondered what he had gotten in return.

"Jackie's not been happy for some time. I told you she wanted to leave. You should have let me end it for her," Rachael said, leaning back in the chair, her long hair dropping down toward the floor.

"There's been too much blood already," he said, a hand running through his hair in exasperation. "If you hadn't have drawn so much attention to us then there would have been no problem in getting rid of her, or even just releasing her like we've done with the others."

"But Brian Goddard was onto us, David. He knew about the money and Paul – he had to go. Him and that boyfriend of his," she looked at him with piercing blue eyes and stood up, making her way round to behind his wheelchair. He felt her hands on his shoulders as they began to massage. She knew how to soothe him; always had done since she was sixteen.

"Brian Goddard could have been bought. He never would have gone to the police. That was what we talked about. He just wanted money. Like Paul did, like you do…" he spat the words and wheeled backwards, forcing her to move.

"Look," she said, her voice still calm. "You lead the little poppets into the darkness, pretend that's what we're doing too and then we can go – disappear – vamoose! We've no Paul to hinder us and we've a lot of money. We can do whatever we like."

David laughed sardonically. Sometimes Rachael was just like her mother had been. "By now the police will know everything; everything about the accounts and they will have been frozen," he looked up at her, his face ashen.

"The police are stupid," she said. "Pretty boy and pretty girl detective will think they're being superheroes. They'll arrange some raid – if they think they know where we are – and they'll 'enter the darkness' with the rest of the poppets. We've got it all set up." She looked triumphantly at him, her eyes ablaze. "Besides, Jackie's probably ended up in the nearest asylum by now and they'll be paying no attention whatsoever to the crap coming out of her mouth. They won't know where we are." She smiled, moving closer to him again, her hand touch his head and her hair falling onto his shoulder.

"I should go speak to the people," he said, still in no mood for her caresses.

She nodded, ceasing all contact. "You go – speak to the minions." She smiled, and at that point he understood how she could kill so many in such cold blood.

_Let me know what you think_

_Sarah :)_


	19. Chapter 19 Scars

**_Thank you to those who reviewed the previous chapter - they were much appreciated. If you didn't review - you still can! All thoughts and comments welcome._**

**_Many thanks to _Lily Moonlight_ for reading through this - you are a great help :)_**

**Chapter 19**

**Scars**

The sky hung its darkness out to dry, the sins of the day masked for a period of blackness that allowed other sins to be committed. Jess sat on the windowsill, looking out into the city, seeing the skyscrapers peering over the miniscule people, dwarfing them. Fragments of silver broke through the dark smoky blue of the sky. The light pollution made sure that New York never saw a truly dark night making the stars seem as precious as diamonds. She recalled a family holiday to Oregon aged about eight, camping in a field. She'd woken up in the middle of the night needing the bathroom and as she'd crept out of the tent she remembered looking up at the sky and seeing a swirl of stars flickering in a black cloth. She'd lay down on the damp grass, forgetting about needing the bathroom, and looked up, trying to count them. Her father had emerged from the tent, as silent as an owl, and he'd sat down next to her, looking up at the sky too.

"We're only small in the scheme of things, Jessica," he'd said. "Each one of those is a sun like ours, with planets orbiting it. We're just flecks of dust." He'd sounded quite happy about it, she remembered.

"I'm not just a fleck of dust, Daddy," she'd replied.

He'd laughed and nodded. "No, you're a small girl who should be tucked up in her sleeping bag. Look," he pointed to a rather large spider that had decided to sit in the awning of the tent. "I'm sure Mickey wouldn't like to find that crawling on him."

Jess had forgotten about the stars and collected the spider, smelling revenge for a dunking she'd received from Mickey the day before.

She'd never agreed with her father that people were just flecks of dust but over time she'd understood that was how he'd dealt with his job, by placing things in a bigger picture. She'd never been able to see it that way, however.

It had been a tough day.

They'd driven Jackie to the station; her speech had become incoherent and babbling, and at first Jess had agreed with Don that they had picked up an escapee from a psychiatric ward. Ninety minutes later and she was with the woman in ER and her words were beginning to make sense, a sense which made Jess' worst fears about the case become realised.

"_It's okay," Jess said. "You're safe. But we need to know what's happened to you."_

_The woman stared at Jess with large brown eyes that shone with fear. "I don't know how I managed to get out," she whispered, as if afraid that someone would overhear them. "But I heard them talking about the final act, about everyone dying. Sam…" she averted her gaze away from the detective and looked towards window whose only view was of an extension of the hospital: brick and glass._

"_What's your name?" Jess asked. _

_The woman stared at her coldly, although Jess realised the emotion wasn't directed at her. "I'm Jacqueline Simms. Jackie. I was studying at Holocaust Litigation at NYU law and I have no idea how long I've been missing for."_

"_Your parents listed you as missing ten months ago," Jess said as a nurse came in and looked at Jackie's notes before clearing the detective out of the room. Flack was outside, holding a fresh cup of something that looked like coffee._

"_How's it going?" he said, passing her the cup._

_Jess shrugged. "We have a name. She's one of the people from Goddard's list. Jackie Simms. It appears she's managed to escape from Rostow. I'll go back in once the nurse lets me."_

_Flack nodded. "I'm meeting Mac to locate the building. We've managed to track back using security cameras where she came from. Call me and let me know what else you find out. We need to know how many are in there, building lay out and anything she can tell us about Rostow and McKinsey's state of mind."_

_Her brown eyes met his blues and for a second the professionalism broke. He leant down and kissed her and she tasted mint and coffee. For a second the case wasn't there and there were no worries._

"_I'll see you later," he said. "I've posted a guard. I don't think Rostow and co will make any attempt to get to her, but I'm taking no risks on my watch"_

_She smiled and watched him leave, reentering the room as the nurse left._

"_Are you okay to keep on talking, Jackie?" she said, sitting back down next to the bed._

_Jackie nodded. "What do you need to know?"_

Jess looked at the scrap of sky she could see between the buildings, a few bright stars glimmering through the haze of false light. She huddled into Flack's sweater, the NYPD emblem on the front faded from being washed after games of basketball with Danny. Even though Flack's apartment was warm and the night wasn't cold, she couldn't shake the icy grip that held her.

Jackie had told of living nightmares, of drugged sleep and an absence of time that would have driven Angell mad. She mentioned routines and lectures that amounted to brainwashing, if not psychological torture, and a filmed room where uncooperative members would be kept, sleep deprived, until they cracked.

Murder was, unfortunately, an every day occurrence, and it was what Jess had become hardened to. But she struggled with the inhumane treatment to which Jackie had been subjected – and not just Jackie. From her accounts there were around thirty-five people in there, half-starved and willing to die because of a madman and his warped ideas.

"_People didn't leave," Jackie said. "Some were escorted out of the building, blindfolded, but others were… finished, I think. There was a team of people, real, real, real believers, who would go with someone who wanted to leave to this room and put them there. They would go back to the room later, and when they came back from there they would bring some of the leaver's jewellery or clothing – always things that had been precious to them. The people would celebrate it mockingly. I hated that, but I was too scared not to join in." _

_Jess felt her blood run cold. The woman was in shock, and was being treated as such, but Jess had no idea what Jackie would be like once the shock had cleared and the reality of it all came back to haunt her._

"_What roles did others have?" Jess said quietly, knowing that she needed to keep her responses to herself and needed to gain as much information as possible._

"_David chose people to work outside and recruit. Those were always the biggest believers – his chosen ones. There's a girl he's just picked, Jennifer. She often goes alone with him, to one of his rooms. She believes that time is a lie – how time not be true? – everything he says she memorises it," Jackie stopped speaking, as if words had failed her. She looked up at Jess, her eyes empty. "How can one person hold so much power?"_

"_I don't know, Jackie," Jess said. "But with your help we can stop him. Can you remember what the building was like inside?"_

_Jackie nodded and began to describe it. In order to keep herself sane she had spent the past few weeks finding out as much about the place as possible, knowing that the information would be needed at some point. Jess wondered why such a bright young woman had ended up there, but now was not the time to ask._

Jess rubbed the condensation from the window pane that her breath had caused and watched the lights of the city flicker. Neon signs and lasers took the blackness away from the night sky; the false lights making sure the city never did sleep.

She hugged Flack's sweater around her more tightly, waiting for the day to come.

-&-

It was nothing he hadn't done before. Mac looked around the room; the serious expressions of officers around him making the room feel smaller somehow. There were no jokes; the jocularity of the bullpen had evaporated. Too many lives were at stake and they had to tread carefully. He looked over at Detective Angell now stood with Flack and recently returned from the hospital where Jacqueline Simms was, two armed officers discreetly placed at her door. He'd gone through Angell's findings with her, and she was to present what she knew to the rest of the team, along with Flack, who'd been busy with a bit of surveillance work himself that afternoon.

The men were tired, he knew. A lot of them had been hit with the bug and were back at work sooner than they should be. A few of them, he could see, looked as if they were about to come down with it. He felt a small moment of appreciation for the fact that he had the constitution of an ox.

"Let's get started," he said, no need to raise his voice as the room was sombrely quiet already and his words cut through the air like a bullet. "5061 Bramhall Avenue. It's where we believe David Rostow and Rachael McKinsey have the base of their cult. As of this moment, we are treating all members of that cult as hostages. Cult members can be divided into roughly two groups: those who believe enough to die for the cause and those who will want to escape should death be imminent. There is a good chance that the former group will not be allowed to leave alive. We need to attempt to get as many people out of there alive as possible. We have members of the Critical Incident Response Unit here among us," he looked at the men and women who were now on a brief secondment to his team. They had spent the past two hours discussing the best way to approach the task and he felt confident that they had chosen the right way to go about it. "When we go in, we look to get the people out. I'm now going to hand you over to Detective Angell who has more light to shed on the people inside and the layout of the building."

Angell stood next to him, the large screen beside her that would be used to show the map that Jackie had drawn and the original architect's plans of the building. He had never seen her nervous, not even on her first day. Her demeanour was calm and cool, utterly professional, although in his office a short time earlier he had seen cracks as she described the atrocities Jackie had recounted.

"We believe there to be around 38 people inside, including the two leaders: David Rostow and Rachael McKinsey. Five of those – excluding McKinsey and Rostow – are extremists within the group and will be more than capable of using extreme force to prevent any disruption of the group's final plans. Six people are thought to want to exit the group but are too afraid to do so. The rest are firm believers, although we are unsure of how the will react to Rostow's final plan," she stopped briefly and took a drink of water. Sheets had been passed around the team showing the names and photographs where available of those people believed to be in the building. The officers present were studying them, memorising the names and faces, especially of the five who were considered to be most dangerous.

"The house was built with four storeys. A ground floor, first and second and a basement. In the past three years renovation has been done to extend the basement two further levels underground. Detective Flack managed to get in touch with the contractor who carried out the work and the plans of the building are on screen now," she turned and looked at the large screen to her right, clicking a button and imposing Jackey's map onto top.

"Jackie Simms escaped from Bramhall Avenue this morning. After being treated for shock she managed to draw a map of where certain rooms are. The one I want to draw your attention to is this," Angell used a red light to indicate a large building in the third level of the basement. "This is the gas chamber. It's already been used to kill at least seven people in the past ten months. However, we believe that there is a way to use the air conditioning to pump gas throughout the three levels of the basement." She stepped back, allowing the rest of the team to look at the maps.

Mac looked again at the faces of those present. The silence was now cold, the initial shelling had finished and they were dealing with the casualties of their thoughts. there were potentially walking into a concentration camp, which was precisely Rostow's idea.

"We know that Rostow and McKinsey are planning on the mass murder-suicide of all the people inside Bramhall Avenue, except themselves. McKinsey has spent most of the day arranging funds to be transferred to various offshore accounts, as well as booking seats on no less than eleven different flights and hiring four cars from different companies. Because of this, we think it's doubtful that they will use the air conditioning to gas the whole of the basement. Capturing McKinsey and Rostow is not our main priority – it's a bonus. Our objective is to get the other 31 people out of there with no casualties," Mac fell silent for a moment, watching their faces.

He began to explain the different entry points, giving a brief overview of each groups' targets. Ideally, one team would have entered using the air conditioning system, but that was too much of a risk to take.

"We suspect that Rostow's 'Final Plan' – the mass suicide – is scheduled for tomorrow night as the flights and cars are all booked for early the following morning. That would also coincide with the birthday of Rostow's father, a holocaust survivor, which we think is of importance to him. Special events and lectures were planned for tomorrow night already. Zero hour will be at 4am tomorrow. That's precisely seven hours away. Once you have been briefed by your team commander, I request that you go home and rest."

He stepped away, allowing Flack to take centre stage, assigning the men to their groups. He was confident, he had to be. But for now, it was a waiting game.

-&-

"You need to eat," Stella said as Mac approached his office, seemingly ambushing him out of nowhere.

"Stell – I've got a lot to sort for the morning…" he began and then shrugged. To win the battle you sometimes had to know when you were defeated.

"You still need to eat. And it's not like you're going to sleep much." She already wore her jacket, and her purse was over her shoulder, ready to go.

"Where do you propose taking me then?" he said, turning his back on his office, leaving it locked.

She smiled. "I thought the Chinese where Flack and Angell were the night Goddard's body was dumped in the precinct. It's close by, Flack says it's good which means it's clean and their take out the other night did smell good."

"This one's on you, Stell," he said. She linked her arm through his as they left the lab, heading towards the lifts and he wondered how she managed to keep going even when they were dealing with situations such as Bramhall Avenue. He supposed it was a defence mechanism, just as his was throwing himself into the case.

"How do you do it?" he said as they entered the lift.

"Do what? Persuade you to leave your desk for an hour to get some food?" Stella said. She looked him hard in the eye, as if reading the answer from his face.

"Stay upbeat," he said. He could see that the usual shine in her eyes was absent, that usual glimmer of life wasn't there.

"Because if we all sat about moping we'd never get anywhere. We'll do it, Mac. We'll get those people out there," she said, her tone strong and confident.

"But what if we don't? There's a huge chance that we'll lose people tomorrow morning, even some of our own." She was the only person he could show any form of doubt to, the only one he ever let beneath the cool exterior he wore like armour. After Claire's death she'd been the only one who he'd let in to see a shard of the suffering he was going through. For Danny, Flack, Lindsay and Hawkes he needed to be resolute and tough. Stella knew him better than that.

"And if you think like that Mac, you're in the wrong job. We'll do it. We'll get those people out."

-&-

Flack turned over in bed, pulling the duvet further round himself, and became acutely aware that he was on his own. He sat up, automatically alert, and listened.

He was aware than someone was in his apartment, and that the someone would be Jess, but he couldn't hear her movements, or the TV or sounds of her tapping on a keyboard. He got out of bed, not noticing the coolness in the apartment and not even thinking about throwing on a t-shirt to cover the scars on his chest.

The scar tissue was not the prettiest thing about him, he knew, but he had stopped being ashamed of the criss-crossed pattern and jagged, slightly pinker mark where Mac had had his fingers in his chest. The first time Angell had seen it had been in the locker room. He'd just showered after a rather messy incident with a dumpster and wasn't sure if the smell would ever be erased. He'd had a towel around his waist and was sniffing under his arms when she'd walked in.

"Well, hello there," she'd said, giving him a grin that suggested he wasn't going to live this down.

He'd looked down, half checking the towel was still in place and half wanting to avoid her eyes when he'd noticed the scars. He'd felt her gaze on them too, tracing their lines and his skin felt as if it was being touched.

Looking up, he'd seen that she was no longer smiling, the joke had gone, disappeared like his chances of anything happening with the new detective.

"Do they itch?" she'd said, sitting down on the wooden bench near the lockers, her eyes still on the scars.

"Sometimes." He'd sat down next to her. "This one," he pointed to the largest, "sometimes burns up even when I'm feeling really cold."

"Can I touch it?"

The question took him by complete surprise and he laughed loudly. "Are you getting your game out on me?"

She'd looked at him innocently. "I have no game, and if I did it'd be better than that!" She'd placed her hand on his chest, her finger tracing the scars.

He'd watched her, amused and intrigued at the same time. Some girlfriends had found the scars repulsive; others had said it was a turn on – showed what a hero he'd been – but then they'd ignored them, preferring to pretend they weren't there.

When she'd looked up, her fingers had remained, scarring his skin in a different way.

"Don't get rid of them," she'd said.

"I don't intend to," he'd said, and he'd meant it. He'd keep them just for her.

She was sitting on the windowsill and the light from outside caught the tears that were slowing making tracks down her cheeks. He said nothing, simply pulling her into his chest, into the scars, and onto the seat nearby. She felt cold, so he would warm her; her cheeks were wet, so he would dry them. He understood how she felt, after a day with a victim and the promise of possibly worse things to come. He also understood that he would endure more scars, if only to ensure that she stayed safe.


	20. 20 Your Screams I Hear Them in My Sleep

_Thank you to those who have reviewed the last chapter, and a big thank you to **Lily Moonlight **for reading though this and offering her comments. I hope there's enough gory details for you now?_

**Chapter 20**

**Your Screams - I Hear Them in My Sleep**

It was almost dawn when Flack found himself sitting in an unmarked car across the street from 5061 Bramhall Avenue. The building had been surrounded all night, and nobody had been seen entering or leaving. Nothing suspicious had taken place, and unless Rostow had burrowed a tunnel, they were all in there.

The sky was turning pink and orange, a myriad of shades. He felt the calm stillness of the morning, the only time New York seemed almost quiet once the revellers had gone home, and daytime's workers had not yet awoken.

He knew he should feel tired. He hadn't slept; the night had been spent sat on the sofa with Jess. She had traced his scars with her fingers as if reading Braille and he had run his fingers through her hair, waiting for the morning and the cursed promises it would bring. But tiredness did not possess him. Instead he was fuelled with adrenaline, his focus on getting into the building and getting out, with no casualties.

His radio crackled and he heard Mac's voice. Everything was set to go.

Flack left his car, five other officers following him to their point of entry, a back door on ground level. The map of the building was etched in his mind, the path they needed to take engrained. In through the back, first left, down two flights of stairs and then first right.

The gas chamber.

Once that was cleared they were to check the small bedrooms on that same level, bring anyone they found outside and then get the hell out of there themselves.

He felt his heart thunder in his chest and heard Mac's voice permeate the radio waves.

"Thirty seconds."

Blood soared through his veins, focusing his vision; every sense seemed more alert, alive.

"Twenty. Everybody ready."

He inhaled deeply, feeling the oxygen pound more strength around his body. He focused on the door, hoping it would open as easily as it looked.

"Inside in ten."

His hand grabbed his gun from his holster and turned off the safety.

"Go! Go! Go!"

Flack forced down the door and stepped inside, quick but cautious. His men fell behind him. As they expected, there looked to be no one on the ground level. The only rooms that were used were three offices belonging to Rostow, McKinsey and Paul Murphy. They were being checked out by another team and weren't his problem right now.

The stairs were carpeted and Flack found that even the footfalls of six heavy men made little noise. He knew from Jess' account of Jackie's experiences that this was to try and promote a noiseless atmosphere.

"There's no one around," one of his men, Phillips, said in an undertone. This had been anticipated. Even though the residents of 5061 Bramhall Avenue didn't follow patterns of day and night, the human body was still programmed to feel tired and less energetic in the hours just before dawn.

Flack ignored the doors to the first basement, one of his men standing by them in case anyone came through. Their actions were quick and well practised; it was an experienced team and they almost instinctively knew where the others were going to move to. Flack was beginning to feel more confident; they had each other's backs – things would be done as they should.

There was silence and no movement as they passed the doors to the second basement. The temperature was warm, too warm, and he was starting to sweat beneath the Kevlar vest. A thought crossed his mind that this had been done purpose, that Rostow was expecting a raid and making it uncomfortably hot would be one way to wrong foot any intruders. He dismissed the thought, his brain continuing the programme to find and seek the hostages, and then get his men out.

The third basement was still strangely quiet; by now Flack had expected to have seen at least one of the hostages. He began to wonder whether they'd somehow managed to get out and Rostow had taken them somewhere else, but given the surveillance on the building over night and for the latter part of yesterday it was unlikely, especially given that Rostow was in a wheelchair.

He led the way through the doors which swung open without making a sound. The carpeting was still plush and thick underfoot, the heat almost unbearable. Flack glanced up at the air conditioning units. They'd been switched off. He pointed up to them and caught the eye of Phillips, who understood the gesture. They were expected. But that was no surprise. Once Rostow and McKinsey knew that Jackie had escaped they would have begun to anticipate reprisals from the police.

"You think they're dead already?" Phillips said, a mutter that could barely be heard.

Flack shrugged. "Who knows?" He gestured to the right, a long corridor that would lead underneath the building next door and the one passed that. He could see the door to the gas chamber, an innocuous looking metal door. With his back to the wall he began to edge towards it, feeling his heart still pounding. He heard shouting from further down the corridor, where team two were, and he hoped that Angell was okay. He heard the beating of his blood around his body in his ears and the pressure was deafening as he pushed open the door.

He took a step back as he saw the scene in front of him. Seven corpses lay behind a glass partition, their eyes still open, expressions of horror forever carved upon their faces. He heard one of his men radio in the information as David Rostow wheeled himself into view and placed his hand on a switch. Flack directed his gun at the man.

"The rest are preparing themselves to go to the next level," Rostow said, his voice perfectly calm yet hypnotic.

"Tell me," Flack said, "Do you really believe in this shit?"

Rostow laughed and Flack felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. "Does it matter?" His hand was lingering on the switch. "I press this and you all find out. How many of your men are in this building, detective? How many will make it out in less than thirty seconds? You must have noticed the air conditioning's switched off? If I press this trigger, the temperature will cool down, with a little added extra." He smiled.

Flack smiled back.

"You got one chance to move away from the switch. You don't, and I'll blow your brains out and you'll go to the _next level_ without them."

Rostow continued to smile and Flack continued to aim. He couldn't strike the man's arm – a through and through would hit the glass and whatever cyanide gas was in the compartment could be released putting his men and himself in anger.

"Your girl's in here, David, you want her to end up dead, or is that part of the plan?" he said, his eyes fixed on the switch.

"That bitch can rot in hell."

The sound of the gun fractured the silence, ripping it open and making it bleed. Flack lowered his weapon; he'd always been a good shot and then heard a radio behind him, Mac asking what the shot was and then Phillips responding.

"Get the rest of the floor cleared," Flack said, still calm, still unflustered.

He took a last look at the body of David Rostow and wondered whether there was another switch.

-&-

Angell followed Mac into another of the small, prison-like cells where a man who was not much more than a boy sat on the small bed, his eyes wide and anxious. Mac went up to him, holding his hands up to show he meant no threat, although he still help his gun.

"We're getting you out of here. Rostow's dead," Mac said, watching the boy's reaction.

"He's already gone? We were meant to go together!" The boy stood up, full of fear.

"You need to make your way to the stairs," Mac said. "Someone there will tell you what to do next."

The boy stared at him as he walked out of the room, almost falling over his own legs like a fawn, as if they hadn't been used for time unknown.

Mac and Angell backed out of the room after him, Mac closing the door to. So far 18 people been evacuated. The five on the watch list for being suspected extremists were not among them, and neither was Rachael McKinsey.

There was a sharp call from further along the corridor; Danny, calling for Mac. Angell followed the older detective to where Danny was; a hubbub of noise was breaking out nearer to the exit as some people refused to leave the building. Angell heard Flack saying something about arrests, his voice growing fainter as she moved towards where Danny stood, pointing into another of the rooms. She glanced inside and saw what was left of a young woman, a handgun fallen to her side.

"Move on," she heard Mac say. "This is one big scene we'll have to process when we get the all clear."

"Closing the door."

She was vaguely aware of Danny still speaking as she looked further down the corridor, something catching her eye, a glimpse of dark hair and a figure she recognised. "Mac," she said, but his attention was on the next room that Danny had just opened up.

She saw movement again, and heard a door close. "Mac!" Her call was louder this time, but she didn't wait for his response, knowing that he would be somewhere behind her. She took off, running quickly, feeling the sweat drip down her back and her hair sticking to her scalp as she ran.

Reaching the end of the corridors, she began to push doors open, gun in her hand. Somewhere, in one of these rooms, was Rachael McKinsey, of that she was sure. A door opened to a room that hadn't been chartered by Jackie and Angell saw a desk, an old fashioned oak desk with a familiar symbol on the front.

"It's not an original, Rachael just liked it, she carved the swastika herself," a voice said. Angell spun around as the voice entered the room, closing the door behind her. A tall girl stood there with long blonde hair and an exquisite face.

"You're Jennifer," Angell said, noticing the gun in the girl's hand.

"You've done your homework," she said. "But you're stopping the final act."

"It's over, Jenn," Angell said, recalling the facts from the missing persons record and the abbreviation of her name. "You can go home back to your family."

Jennifer laughed and lifted the gun to her head, moving around the room and sitting down on the desk chair. She began to spin on it, round and round, making dizzying circles.

Angell wondered where the hell Mac was, or even Danny.

"You don't need to hurt yourself, Jenn. You don't need to go to the next level yet. They will wait for you," Angell said, trying to pacify the girl. She kept hearing the click of the safety as she flicked it on and off, on and off.

Angell saw the door begin to open and aimed her gun at it, hoping to see Mac or Danny. Instead she saw Rachael McKinsey, tall and slim. She turned a catch on the door and faced Angell.

"She's going to kill herself anyway. You should have left her to it," Rachael held out her hand for Jennifer gun. The girl passed it to her, unquestioning.

"Put the gun down," Angell said, hearing a note of apprehension in her voice.

Rachael smiled and pressed the trigger. The shot was a good one and Jennifer fell on to the desk, her pretty face mangled by the bullet and the blood and brains it had produced. "She was a good girl. She got me a detective."

Angell aimed and fired but she was too slow. She saw the bullet come at her as if in slow motion, but she was paralysed to move, feeling only searing pain as it struck her femoral artery in her thigh and she fell to the ground. She saw Rachael's face, her mouth caught in a laugh and her eyes shining. Then it turned to a blur and she became oblivious to Rachael leaving the room, not hearing the calls of Mac and Danny, and finally, Flack.


	21. Out of the Dark, Into the Rain

_Thank you for the reviews on the last chapter, they were very inspiring, and I do apologise for the 'character in mortal peril', but it is fun!_

_Many thanks to **Lily Moonlight** once again, for reading through and catching my typos. The M/S is for you!!_

**Chapter 21**

**Out of the Dark, Into the Rain**

Everything is muted, silent. His vision is blurred and nothing will focus and the world seems to spin in circles that are ever decreasing. He knows he is speaking, shouting even, but he has no idea what the words are that fall out of his mouth and into the air, they are simply little bubbles of noise.

Danny runs down the corridor, his shoes seemingly on fire and the sound switches back on, Flack can suddenly hear and it's as if word and noise are being thrown at him in some foreign language that he doesn't understand. Danny is calling for Stella over the radio and Flack remembers that she is at ground level. He looks to where Danny has gone and then back at the scene in front of him and at the moment it is a scene, because if he calls it anything else he won't know what to do.

He hears Mac's voice calling and his heart lunges from his chest into his stomach. Mac's sitting with Angell, crouching down next to her. Angell's eyes are closed and for a moment Flack's heart is torn from his chest, some malignant being stamping it into the ground. He feels his feet sticking to the floor, the soft carpeted floor and can't move.

"Don, she's alive," Mac says. He is tearing the arm of his shirt off with one hand, while keeping the other pressed onto the top of her leg. Flack knows he is trying to apply pressure, trying to stem the blood loss. "The bullet's nicked the artery in her leg, that's why there's so much blood."

Flack has seen the blood. The whole room appears to be swimming in red. He looks up and sees a girl, her head on the desk, but he is unmoved by it. His eyes transfer back to Jess and he sees Hawkes with her now, Hawkes and Mac, trying to stop her losing so much blood.

Trying to stop her dying.

He manages to move closer, manages to move towards her face, her beautiful face, where he crouches, his hand immersing itself in her hair.

He has never before felt so helpless.

There is another voice in the room. Everyone else is still in the corridors, trying to get the rest of the people out of there. Before the gunshot, before his life stopped, they had twenty-eight people accounted for, only a handful still inside.

He feels Mac looking at him. "The ambulance is on its way. You need to stay with Jess." Mac stands up and Flack feels panicked. "I've got to go and see what's happening. Hawkes is here. He may need you to help."

Flack nods, and begins to feel reality creep back into him. "How is she?"

Hawkes looks up from the tourniquet he has made to stop the blood from draining the life out of Jess. "She's as good as I can get her without surgery."

"Is she going to live?" Her skin feels cold beneath his hand. He remembers that skin being so warm and soft; moving under his touch, responding to every finger print he left on her.

"The bullet's more than nicked her femoral artery. It's a major vein, Flack and she has lost a lot of blood already. However, Mac was quick. It's possible that because of his speed there's still enough blood in her to keep oxygen to keep vital organs fed," Hawkes' eyes are not filled with science, they're filled with fear, but Flack knows that he will only speak the truth. If there was no hope to cling onto, Hawkes would never have given it.

"Fucking Rachael McKinsey," Flack says. He cannot feel relief, yet he needs to feel something to keep himself alive. He wants to stand up, to run and follow Danny and find the bitch that has put his girl within death's grasp, and he knows that when he sees her, when he sees the woman who has done this, he will shoot without thought of the law or his life. "I need to find her."

Hawkes shakes his head. "I can't stop you," he says. "Only because I can't take my hands away. But you need to stay with Jess, Flack. Don't leave her now."

Flack knows his feet will not allow him to walk away from her, and he feels his own bones sink lower to the ground as if planting him next to her.

"Stella and Danny have gone after her. They're two of the best, you know that. They'll get her." The words float round the room like flies, their buzz echoing in his head.

He looks at Jess. She's pale. He touches her lips with a finger; they feel dry and cold, but he can feel her breath on his hand; short, shallow breaths, but they're there and he knows she's still alive.

"Where the hell's the paramedics?" he says, glaring at Hawkes, who isn't looking at him, but at the hole in Jess' leg that the bitch has put there.

"Don, you need to calm down," Hawkes says, one of his hands moving to Jess' ankle where he checks her pulse. "It's only been a couple of minutes."

Flack feels as if time has decided to run differently for him. He looks at the woman lying beside him, her body limp and lifeless, her eyes closed as if in some deep sleep from which she can't awake. He is reminded of Snow White, her black hair against white cheeks, lying asleep waiting for the coffin to be jolted and dislodge the apple from her throat.

There is more noise outside and he hears screaming and a loud shout. He remembers, just minutes and a lifetime ago, thinking about a second switch, and now he knows there is one.

-&-

Danny runs down the corridor, following a whisper of blonde hair. He knows he has to be quick, that Rachael has too much of a head start on him, and he hopes that someone has alerted Stella.

He stretches his legs up the stairs, taking four at a time, his hand on his weapon. He will shoot, that he knows. No longer are they in the dark about Rachael's capacity to kill. The door outside swings open, she has only just gotten out. He hears the sound of a motorbike revving up and wishes his own Harley was here. The rain begins to fall, large heavy drops that punch his skin and lend him a reality check. The city dulls a little greyer, and he hopes for some light to brighten it once more and then his thoughts transfer to Flack, and his darkness, and he knows he needs to find Rachael McKinsey for him.

"Danny! Get in the car!" Stella shouts, already there. He pulls himself into the vehicle, his heart pounding, his senses wired. "How's Angell?"

"Not good," he says. "Looks like her femoral artery's been severed. There was a lot of blood, but some may have been from a vic in there."

"Flack with her?"

"Yep," his answer is short as he tries to see where Rachael is heading, but she's weaved her way out of the traffic already. "We've lost her already." He wants to punch something, preferably Rachael McKinsey.

"I know where she's heading," Stella says. Her expression is grim and tight, but she exudes a coolness that he knows means there can only be one outcome. They will catch her.

-&-

There are three of them, the last three. Somehow, they haven't already been found, but here they are now, in the office used by David Rostow. Mac doesn't need to think. Two of his officers are two levels down with a detective who is unable to move; paramedics will soon be entering the building; he has three officers inside doing a final search. If the switch is pressed the people inside will have around 180 seconds to exit before the gas gets so thoroughly into their systems that they will simply shut down.

For him, there will be no choice.

He raises his weapon, ignoring the shouts of the three and a scream from one of them.

"In the next level there won't be scum like you!" one of them hollers.

"Step away from the switch," he says. The hand moves away from it.

He might be able to get them out alive.

"Why did you come here?" he asks them. Right now, Stella and Danny are pursuing one of the most psychopathic murderers he has come across. Right now, Stella and Danny were at risk themselves. Right now, he wanted to be with Stella. He felt a surge of something electrical and knew the source.

"It was a better life," is the answer. He looks at the three; skinny to the point of emaciation, eyes sunken but still with a blaze of madness, devotion to their leader.

"Is it still? Is being starved and drugged a better life than the freedom you had outside?" His weapon is still aimed.

"Freedom from what? Freedom in a hell where we are imprisoned by time and a society that demands a robot instead of an individual?" The hand quivers near the switch. He has a clear shot, and he knows that as soon as the bullet has left the gun, the two others will be safe. They will leave the building, as will his officers, and then as will he.

"So this place was a sanctuary from problems you couldn't face sorting out? Rostow's dead and Rachael's in police custody," he says, wishing the latter was true. "There's no safe haven any more down here." He pauses, watching the reaction. His words were goading, wanting the man whose hand was about the press the switch to be on the verge of pressing it, then he could shoot and get them out of there. "What if Rostow was lying? What if this is it, this is the only life you get. Then that's it – you'll have ended it. Not just for yourself, but for all the other people who haven't chosen your death. Rostow said you had to go willingly."

"And those that wouldn't he let them go," the man's hand comes down again. "Except he didn't. He had us…" Eyes glass over with memories that the brain was trying to suppress and Mac see the cracks begin to form. He looks at the other two and gestures for them to leave. An officer is behind him and leads them out. Mac takes the chance and drops his weapon. He takes the few steps over the man and places a hand on his back, escorting them both into the daylight for the first time in months. For Mac, realisation has come just in time.

The light is blinding.


	22. Breathing Light

_Thank you for the reviews! I wrote this a week or so ago, but this past week's been that hectic and stressful this is the first time I've had to post._

_Thank you to __**Lily Moonlight**__ as always for discussion and reading through, noticing my wonderful typos!!_

_Only one more chapter after this!_

**Chapter 22**

**Breathing Light**

Stella drove too fast around corners, making Danny hold his breath and clutch onto the seat. She didn't speak, and he was glad of that, not really knowing what to say without a whole torrent of feeling spilling out.

He wondered if Lindsay knew what was going on, if Mac or Hawkes or someone had let her know. She and Angell weren't real good buddies or anything, not really knowing each other that well, but he'd feel bad if she found out too late. Danny knew she was back at the lab, processing evidence from a murder that had taken place in the early hours of the morning, a scene that she had worked pretty much by herself. She was still blaming herself for Tomas Mare's death, preferring her own company to that of anyone else's, especially Danny's. He reached in his pocket for his cell, having decided to make a quick call to say what had happened, check she knew, but there was no cell there.

"Shit!" he said, as Stella turned another corner and the wheels skidded slightly.

"What's up?" she asked, he full concentration on the road.

"I think I've lost my cell somewhere," he said. "I was going to call Lindsay, let her know what was going on."

Stella shook her head. "Leave it for now, Danny," she said. "Lindsay will have heard somehow, and your phone's probably fallen out of your pocket when we've turned a corner." She took another without warning, causing a second driver to beep his horn loudly.

He saw Rachael's bike pulled up outside a large house that looked still and quiet. Stella spoke into her radio, calling for back up, remaining in the car.

"Are we going to wait?" he asked, surprised if they were.

She shook her head. "There's no easy exit from the back door, unless she's already got it open, so the only possible way out is the front."

"How did you know she'd be here?" Danny said as they both got out of the car. The rain was still pouring, the large heavy drops did not look as if they were going to cease anytime soon.

"This is the beginning of David's obsession. I imagine that David blamed his father for a lot of things that were wrong with his life, and talked about revenge. Rachael will be looking to carry that out," Stella paused as they approached the front door. It was slightly ajar.

He followed her through the door, listening for a hint of where Rachael was. The air seemed still and stagnant, nothing seemed to be breathing in this house and he fought the urge to leave before he became some fragment of dust floating in the air.

Stella walked to the last door on the long hallway and paused outside. Danny expected to hear voices as he drew closer, but there was only silence.

She pushed open the door and stepped in, weapon drawn. He followed behind her, and on entering the room saw Rachael McKinsey sitting in an old-fashioned arm chair. Rachael's expression was unreadable; her eyes were fixed on the old man sitting across from her, drinking a cup of English tea from a mug. She held a similar mug in her own hands, although Danny could see it was untouched.

"Miss Bonasera," the old man said. "I'm glad to see you again. I trust the detective who is injured is fairing well?"

"I'm not sure, Elior," Stella said, relaxing her weapon. Danny kept a grip on his, unsure of how Stella was playing this. "When we left they were waiting for the paramedics to arrive."

Danny looked at Elior carefully, making sure that he gave quick glances to Rachael every half a second, monitoring her movements. He seemed well. There were no obvious injuries; it looked like what ever Rachael had gone there for, she hadn't hurt the old man yet, whatever her intentions.

"Rachael decided to pay me a little visit," Elior said. "She's threatened to kill me, but as I've said before, death doesn't scare me. I'm old and I've lived all I want to. Any more days are a bonus." Elior looked at Rachael, who still hadn't moved. "She hasn't said why she wants to kill me, although I suspect it's something to do with David. It normally is."

There was a silence while all three looked at the woman. Rachael's eyes remained firmly fixed on Elior, barely blinking.

"David hated you," she said, once the silence became unbearable. "He said you should have died in the war, then he would have never been born. I knew they would follow me, and now I can take you all with me. With me and David."

"David was mad, young lady. I've known that for some time although I was never quite sure how mad. You, I suspect, never quite realised what you were doing, it's all been some big game, like it was when you were a little girl and you'd lock your friends up in your bedroom and refused to let them out." Elior drank the rest of his tea and placed the cup down on the table next to him. "You need to go with these officers, Rachael. I'm sure they'll take care of you. You don't need to hurt anyone else, you've done enough for one day."

"I want you dead," she said, the only part of her body moving was her lips. Danny wondered where she had concealed the gun.

"Even if you don't shoot me, you won't have very long to wait. I'm old, Rachael. Time is not on my side," Elior said.

There was a flurry of movement, during which Stella and Rachael both aimed their weapons, Rachael pulling hers from down the side of the chair where she must have stuffed it before they'd arrived. Stella was trying to get a clean shot of the girl but needed to step to her right some. Danny could see Rachael's hand trembling as she pointed her weapon at Elior and he wondered if some sort of clarity had appeared to her.

"Rachael," Stella's was soft and almost sympathetic. "You need to put the gun down. We can help you get through this."

Rachael laughed. "Get through what? I'm sorry it's over and it's probably my fault. I killed too many in too short a time, I should have spread them out more. But you know what? It was good. I enjoyed it. That moment, when the light goes out of their eyes and their body becomes a shell – it's precious. To have that power. To be in control."

Danny moved in front of Elior, the quick action distracting her for a second and allowing Stella to move. Rachael looked frightened almost, as if she was a mouse cornered by a cat and looking for an exit. There was no way out for her, and Danny could see what her reaction would be. Flight or fight, and with no way for flight -

Rachael swung the gun away from Elior towards Stella, and then to Danny, and then the sound of a gunshot permeated the air, echoing against the walls.

-&-

There should have been a trench in the floor he had walked up and down the corridor so many times, waiting for news. _No news is good news_ had become Flack's mantra although it hadn't done anything to alleviate his raised heart beat.

He'd heard nothing about Stella or Mac or the hostages since arriving at the hospital thirty minutes ago and although he had wondered what was happening, he'd been unable to give it more than just a passing thought. All he could see when he closed his eyes was Jess, lay there, life draining from her. And from him.

The ambulance ride had felt long and tortuous, even though it had taken barely five minutes to get there. She'd been taken straight into the OR, leaving him with one of the paramedics waiting for his colleague to finish relaying Jess' vital statistics.

"Your did a good job with her," the paramedic had said to Hawkes. "Her blood pressure isn't as low as I'd expect given the state of her injuries. She's got a good chance."

Flack had felt faint at the words. _Chance_. There was a chance he wouldn't see Jess alive. There was a chance she might die. He sat abruptly as he considered the paramedics words more fully. Hawkes had gone to get coffee, and probably phone Mac to get an update. The doctor-cum-CSI had told him it might be a couple of hours before she was out of surgery – _if she got out of surgery._ He hadn't needed to say the latter to Flack, he was all too aware of probabilities. Hell, he'd been there. On Jess' end of the odds.

His mind refused to stay still, wandering into crevasses and territories unknown and unconsidered for a few seconds each time, but unable to rest anywhere. He listened anxiously for any movement, any sounds of doctors' feet or even Hawkes, Hawkes might be able to find something out.

He rested his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands, trying to stop thinking, trying to find some safe place where he could keep his thoughts.

"Don – drink this," he looked up to see Hawkes stood in front of him, offering him a proper cup of coffee and not just some machine spittle. "She's doing okay in there."

"You spoke to someone?" Flack said, feeling heat rise through his body.

"One of the surgeons worked where I did for a few months. She's in good hands and she's lost less blood than she could've," Hawkes said, taking a gulp from his mug.

Flack let the silence fall, unsure of what he should say or do.

"How you feeling?" Hawkes eventually said. He didn't look at Flack, and Flack wondered whether that was because Hawkes knew he wouldn't be able to speak with someone reading him, reading his expressions.

"Like someone's just torn me apart from the inside," Flack said eventually, his voice surprisingly calm and quiet. "I didn't know I would feel this way."

He saw Hawkes nod from the corner of his eye. "Jess is a tough girl, and she's a fighter."

"I should have looked after her better."

"How?" It was a single word, and Hawkes looked directly at Flack as he spoke. "She's a cop. This is the danger we put ourselves in. You knew that when you got involved."

"I know," Flack said weakly. "And we talked about it, you know, said it wouldn't get in the way of our job…" He shook his head, unable to speak more.

"If it were you in there, she'd be feeling just the same. Don't feel guilty for that, Don. What you're feeling's natural."

Flack nodded, trying to drink some of the coffee. He didn't notice whether it was decent or not, just that it was warm and wet, quenching a thirst he didn't realise he had.

He heard a commotion further down the corridor, as someone else was rushed into an operating room in an emergency. He heard a woman crying and a man trying to comfort her, but he couldn't find any sympathy. It became silent again, a silence that seemed to be hovering over them, like a vulture, waiting to grab any sadness it could feast on.

"I don't know what I'll do if she dies," Flack said, not to Hawkes, not to anyone but himself. "It's only been a few days since we got together…"

"No, it hasn't," Hawkes said. "It's been months. You've been strutting round her like a peacock since you two started being partnered together. It might have only been a few days since you became official, but it's not a few days since you've been feeling the way you have."

Flack nodded, making some attempt to remember to thank Hawkes when all this was over.

Over.

How would it end?

-&-

Stella felt Rachael's neck, discovering a faint but steady pulse as the woman lay on her side, as still as a corpse. It had been a good shot, a good clean shot, perfectly aimed.

Even if she did say so herself.

She hadn't anticipated Rachael aiming at Danny. All along, she'd imagined the bullet would have been for Elior, but clearly Rachael had decided she didn't want to go down with minimal damage, and Elior would die of old age before too long anyway, so she'd aimed at Danny.

However, her finger had never even made contact with the trigger. Stella had seen the look of hunger in her eyes and had known her shot, if taken, would be lethal, so she'd pulled her own trigger, aiming for her stomach, not wanting to kill. And like Artemis, she didn't miss her target.

"Good shot, Stella," Danny said, having radioed in for an ambulance. "Although I dare say you could have inflicted more damage."

Stella shook her head. "There's been enough deaths." She looked at Elior who was still sitting in his chair. "David…"

"I know," Elior said. He didn't smile, but there was no hurt in his tone. "I only wish it had been sooner, then more lives would have been spared." He stood up, only for Winston the cat to make an entrance and jump on the empty chair. "I'll get my coat as I suppose you'll need me at the station, and it's still raining outside."

"I'll give you a hand, sir," Danny said, catching Stella's eye. She was crouched down next to Rachael, holding the injured woman's jacket over the bullet wound, stemming the loss of blood. In the distance she could hear sirens; nearer still she could hear the sounds of officers making their way into the house, a little too late, but no harm done. She just hoped that the harm Rachael herself had done was not being added to, and that Detective Angell was finding her way out of the woods.

-&-

Afternoon light poured in through the windows, dimming the fluorescent bulbs with its strength. The rain had ceased, having washed some of the sins of the city away for now, although no doubt they would be reinforced quickly. The city breathed in the light, taking its energy for itself, soaking up its goodness. Throughout the place, people noticed the brighter light, opening windows and pushing curtains back to let in as many of the rays as possible. Old friends stopped in the street, in the park, to talk and catch up, no longer needing to find light or shelter indoors. Light had won its war with darkness. For today, anyway.

"You can go see her now."

At first, it seemed as if the nurse was speaking in a foreign tongue and he didn't understand. He looked up at her, feeling as if someone had just shaken him awake for the first time in days.

"You can go in and see her. She's still sedated and asleep, but you can sit with her for a few minutes."

He stood, his legs feeling as weak as a new born foal's, and went toward the door of the room the nurse had pointed to. He paused, looking in through the small window and seeing Jess lying in a bed, white sheets pulled over her and a drip beside her. He could hear a steady beep from the machines, one that he recognised from his own stay in hospital, one that he found comforting because it told him that she was stable.

Her hair was spread over the pillow, the black contrasting with the white, and again he recalled Snow White. She looked less pale, and her expression was more comfortable.

Flack pushed open the door and entered, leaving Hawkes talking with his surgeon friend. A few strides and he was beside her, his eyes taking in what he had thought he would never see again. He lifted a hand and brushed her cheek with his fingers, feeling soft warmth, the coldness had gone.

"I thought that was it, Jess," he said. "And I didn't know what to do if it was." He sat on the chair beside her bed and wound his fingers into her hair.

She was alive.

He could breathe again.


	23. Tread Softly

_Thank you to everyone who has reviewed this story, you've been more helpful than you know. Also, big thanks to __**Lily Moonlight**__, you've been a star reading through and correcting and suggesting! I hope you'll continue when the new book is started!!_

_I don't own CSI:NY or any of the characters. I also don't own the fantastic poem quoted. It's by William Butler Yeats and I first heard it read out at the funeral of a character in Ballykissangel many years ago; it's remained a favourite ever since then, and no doubt I'll be using it again at some point._

_For the last time – enjoy (and then please review!!)_

**Chapter 23**

**Tread Softly**

_HAD I the heavens' embroidered cloths,  
Enwrought with golden and silver light,  
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths  
Of night and light and the half-light,  
I would spread the cloths under your feet:  
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;  
I have spread my dreams under your feet,  
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams_

W.B. Yeats

Lindsay was in the lab when he found her, labelling evidence from the murder of a man whose body had been found in a telephone booth. She seemed oblivious to his presence, and at first he wondered if she was ignoring him, although she seemed to have gotten over that. Eventually.

He watched her for a moment as she worked, realising she was completely absorbed in what she was doing, totally engrossed. She'd finally forgiven him, about the same time as she'd forgiven herself for Tomas More's death.

"_You want to grab a coffee?" she asked after they found out that Jess had regained consciousness and was no longer on the critical list._

"_Sounds good," he said, feeling his pulse rate rise a little in hope._

_They went to a small coffee house, not too far from the hospital where Jess was, and where Danny knew Flack would be, as he had been for the past two days, along with Jess' parents._

"_It's good news then," he said, when the ice around them got a little too thick._

_Lindsay nodded. "Jess is tough and she's a fighter. Besides, she's got too much to live for."_

_Danny nodded, not sure how to respond. The ice began to grow again._

"_Look, Linds. I know I'm really no knight in shining armour, but…" he licked his lips, thinking. "I'd really like us to try and make it work. If it had been you instead of Jess…"_

_She looked at him, and he wondered if he'd said the wrong thing. Then she smiled. "I'd like to give it another chance too."_

_He felt himself breathe again, and then felt the brush of her leg against him and smiled. It was a good day._

Eventually, she looked up at him, almost jumping, and that smile re-emerged. "I thought you were out with Flack tonight?" she said.

"We've been out," Danny said. "Had a couple of beers, found a couple of girls…"

She laughed and threw some object at him. "Hey! That'll get you fired! You fancy dinner?"

Lindsay nodded. "I'm just about done. I've got a steak in, if you want to come back to my place?"

He gave silent thanks to whichever god had decided to smile on him that night. "You lead the way," he said, gesturing with his hand.

She smiled, and he wondered if the light had just got brighter.

-&-

_The dying sun was reflected in the water, its image rippling as a breeze softly blew. He watched her as he approached the lake; curls being playfully nudged by the breeze, her hands around her, trying to keep a little warmer, even though the evening wasn't cold._

"_Mac," Stella said, turning round and catching sight of him. "What are you doing here?"_

"_I've just been to see Angell," he said, his hands in his pockets. "She's doing well. No lasting damage, although it'll be a good few months before she's jumping across cars to catch criminals again."_

_Stella smiled as the sun let out one last gasp of light before sinking into the lake. "And how's Flack?"_

_Mac laughed as they set off walking back down the path, towards the lab. "He's okay. Over the moon that she's going to be fine. They'll be good, the two of them."_

"_They make a good couple," Stella said. "They fit well together." She looked at him, and he read the unspoken words in her eyes, the same ones that were written in his._

_He noticed her shiver and pulled off his jacket. "Take this," he said. "Keep warm."_

_She took it, their fingers brushing as she did so and for a second he wondered if they could fit, before dismissing the thought from his mind, like he had done so many times previously._

"Mac," he heard his name and looked up, seeing Stella stood in front of him. "It's late and we haven't eaten. You want to grab Chinese?"

He smiled, grabbing his coat that was still laced with faint traces of her scent. How could he refuse such an offer?

-&-

The last time Jess had been in this room had been two weeks ago, a few hours before the raid of the building on Bramhall Avenue. She hadn't slept in Flack's bed then, instead they'd found solace on his couch, waiting for the hours to pass, waiting for that dark hour just before dawn.

The dark hour had continued after dawn had come.

She sat down on the bed, noticing the freshly washed sheets and smiled. Since she'd been discharged a week ago, she'd stayed at her parents, ignoring Flack's protests that he'd take time off work to look after her, but she hadn't wanted looking after, didn't want to be made to feel like an invalid, or to have her be the weaker one in the relationship.

Instead, they'd compromised, and he'd stayed with her some nights at her parents, after his shifts had finished, saying that he was perfectly happy with the interrogation he'd get from her parents.

And it was then she'd seen another facet to him, one that seemed to work at a slower pace. It was tender and yet burned deeply, and was something that he couldn't explain or put into words. The first night he'd stayed, after the grilling from her father and two of her brothers who had just 'happened' to drop by, he'd been quiet, a quietness that had worried her at first.

"_Spit it out, Flack. What's up?" she said, looking at his back as he gazed out of the window, overlooking the lawn that her father tried to keep manicured, but failed._

_He shook his head, not wanting to speak and she stood up, her leg still weak, very weak._

_Putting a hand on his back, partly to steady herself but mainly to touch, she wondered what it was he needed to say, but wouldn't._

"_If you want out, I'll understand." It wouldn't be logical, if he wanted to end the relationship, she knew, and the biggest part of her brain understood that. If he didn't want to be with her, he certainly wouldn't have put up with the Spanish inquisition her father had just put her through. But there was still that niggling doubt, and she wasn't one to brood._

_He turned around, his figure dark with the sun behind him, and placed his hand around her waist._

"_I think it should be me saying that, Jess," he said._

_She gave a small, unbelieving laugh. "Really? You know, Don. You need to get yourself some game, because this silent business really isn't doing it for me."_

_He smiled, and his blue eyes looked a little brighter. "I told you. I ain't got no game."_

"_Then play mine and tell me what's eating you." She took a step back and sat on the queen sized bed that she knew would be a squash for them. There had only ever been one other boy in that bed, and that had been ten years ago, light years ago._

_He shook his head in exasperation rather than refusal and she waited needing to know what he was going to say, needing to know what had changed._

_Flack looked at her, and she wished she could read his mind. Then he bent down, his hand at the back of her head, pulling her to him in a kiss, one that seemed to set her very soul on fire and burn away any trace of doubt._

_When it ended, she found she had tears on her cheeks that had run into his, or were they his tears? She wasn't sure. "_That_ was what you wanted to tell me?" she said as he sat beside her on the bed, his fingers drying the tracks of her tears from her skin.._

_He shrugged; his eyes still on the picture outside. She could hear her father watering the garden; hear him singing some song that was unrecognisable to any ear bar her mother's. "It's only been a few weeks," he said, eventually, still looking outside._

"_Has it?" she said. "Are you sure it didn't start with 'hello'?"_

_He laughed and managed to look at her, then averted his gaze away again, this time to his knees. "Yeah, I guess it pretty much did, although your taste in movies hasn't improved since then," he paused for a moment, and this time she didn't try and rush him, instead waiting, waiting for words to arrive._

"_Jess, I didn't know if you were going to live. I didn't like it when I thought you wouldn't be around, and I know there's a lot of people – aside from the scumbags of New York – who prefer you to be here… but I want you here with me," he looked up at her, almost hopefully, almost like a small boy waiting to find out whether he was forgiven for breaking his mother's best vase._

_She waited, knowing there was more, knowing that at some point there would be a snappy summary, he would get to his point._

"_You know, maybe I'm not good enough for you. Maybe your dad's down there right now working out how to get me off his premises…"_

"_I think it's more likely he's saying to his plants the same sort of crap that's just poured out of your mouth," she interrupted. "Fertiliser. Quit with the self-doubt Flack. I want you here, with me."_

_He nodded, and she noticed his eyes were now shining. "Okay, Jessica Angell. I was trying to be subtle…"_

"_I'm surprised you know the word exists!"_

"_If you weren't injured…" he looked at her, and she felt something electrical connect them, as it had been doing for months, for all the time they'd been doing this dance around each other. _

"_If I weren't injured would you be here?" she said, still holding his gaze. The answer formed in his eyes before he spoke._

"_Yes, I would. I can give you all the romantic crap, about how I'd go anywhere and do anything, but you'd laugh and that's not me. If I could have swapped places with you in hospital, I would have; if I could have shot Rachael McKinsey when I thought you were going to die I would have; if I could have had one more conversation with you when you were in that ambulance I would have turned my badge in and sold my soul to the devil," the words were fast and hard; there was a furiousness to them that made butterflies take off in her stomach and beat through her chest. _

"_I believe you," she said. "I heard you, in the ambulance. At least, I remember thinking it was you but I wasn't sure if I was just dreaming. I remember trying to answer back but I couldn't."_

"_What did I say?" he said, his eyes dancing. "It could have been one of the paramedics."_

"_If it was it must have been love at first sight," Jess said, raising a hand to touch his cheek that was reddening._

"_Did I tell you that?" he said, his voice had become softer, huskier. "Really?"_

"_And I remember wanting to say it back," she said, sliding her hand down to the bottom of his t-shirt and pushing it up, over his chest, exposing his scars._

"_Is it not too soon?" he said, his fingers unbuttoning her shirt as her hands drank in his skin, reading it, every sentence, every word._

"_How can it be too soon when another day might be too late?"_

Jess lay back on the sheets, feeling the cool crispness of them. He'd told her in a midnight confession, that he hadn't changed his sheets since before she was shot, needing the smell of her on them. She'd laughed, and teased him, and found his embarrassment endearing. Then she'd made him promise to have them changed before she next stayed over.

And he had done.

She stood up, smiling, the memory of that first night at her parents imprinted on her mind in indelible ink. She heard the noise of the key in the door and Flack's presence entering the apartment, and she moved into the living room to greet him.

"I'm home," he said, reaching for her.

_And so am I_, she thought, feeling his lips on hers. _I'm home too._

-&-

The sun was setting, leaving trails of colours in the soon to be night sky. It was a scene he'd watched a thousand times before, although he knew he'd only see it a few times more before he gave up the ghost of this life for whatever was in the next.

Elior Rostow sat beside the unmarked grave, finding he was unable to mourn the son he'd never understood. Instead he thought of those souls he'd taken with him, out of this life before their time.

He stood up slowly, using a stick to help with his balance and began the walk out of the cemetery, the sky losing its light to the temporary shroud of darkness, while the rest of the city glowed, not with the neon bulbs of the buildings, but with something else. Life.


End file.
